


the fisherman’s guide

by watergator



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Near Death Experiences, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28505505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watergator/pseuds/watergator
Summary: it’s 1956 and phil is a lighthouse worker who wants to write, and dan is the handsome stranger that washes up on shore one night who can’t remember who he is, but does know how to fish
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 60
Kudos: 104





	1. part I

A seagull soars across the sky. Its wings spread wide, momentarily paused against the blue as it glides through the air, not before it flaps its wings again. It passes through the sunlight, briefly shadowing the world for a moment in a blink of darkness.

Phil follows the bird with one eye, the other squinted as he looks up from where he’s sat in the sand, a hand cupped over his forehead in an attempt to shield himself from the blasting white rays that shine down upon him.

The bird swoops, circling and diving in the sky - a dance of some kind, until eventually, it has enough, growing bored of its own antics Phil supposes, and with a flap of his wings, it flies away, over the stretch of the ocean where Phil watches it, until it becomes a small dot in the distance, no longer distinguishable.

Phil rubs at his eye, blinking where he can see spots of light trapped in his vision.

He blinks a few more times, watching them fade between shutters of his eyelids, before he can once again clearly see the pages of his book, the printed lines against the paper are no longer obscured.

His finger finds the last word he had left on, tapping at it in an unsteady rhythm. The ink is smudged, just slightly, a clear sign of long ownership as his thumb presses against the edge of the page. He reads it, once, twice, a third time before he lets out a heavy huff.

It’s no use. He’s distracted himself and he knows it's more likely for the seagull to return and start speaking English than it is for him to settle back down and focus.

He sighs again, a little shorter this time as he folds the corner of his page, flattening it down with his thumb as he closes the book.

He pauses as his eye trails over the cover, his fingers skim across the illustration, each word printed across the hardback.

_ Forbidden Colors, by Yukio Mishima _ is what is plastered across the cover.

He holds his breath, his fingertips trace over the lettering before he looks around, head whipping from side to side.

Of course, there’s nobody here. The beach is empty, save for the few birds hopping around in the sand, beaks pecking in search for food.

But other than the birds, Phil and his book, it’s quiet. Quiet enough for Phil to stretch his legs out a little on his towel, letting his book rest lazily in his lap, uncaring for these few short moments as he tips his head back, closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the waves lapping up against the shore, not too far from where he’s sat.

The sun touches against his skin, going from warm to hot to boiling in a matter of moments, and he’s sitting back up, pressing a hand to his forehead to feel the scorching skin there with a half laugh.

He spends a few more small minutes listening to the rolling motion of the waves. It’s something he reckons he’ll never really get used to - something he’s definite would never grow old to anybody or anyone.

Once he’s had enough of the waves and the sun is prickling his skin through his shirt, he stands up, dusts the sand from his clothes and packs away his satchel, making sure his book is tucked away inside his towel now rolled up and mostly sand free.

The walk back to the lighthouse isn’t a long one.

Just a little stretch of beach, a few uneven steps, a small climb up some jagged rocks and Phil finds himself back at his front door, giving it a push where it swings open, happily greeting him home.

It’s not much, but Phil enjoys it. Only a small room, it’s enough to keep him alive.

There’s a long sofa in the middle of the room that’s littered with a few blankets and quilts thrown over it, in one corner tucked away is the kitchen. The old stove sits proudly between two countertops, and a fridge that when Phil takes a peek in, is still empty.

A bookshelf is shoved to one wall, brimming with different works, some spines are fresh and new, whilst others are tattered and worn. Phil doesn’t take his book from his bag, but instead slings his satchel onto his bed, pushed up against the other wall, next to the two doors, where the bag lands softly.

With sand under his nails Phil retreats to the bathroom, one of the rooms behind the door beside his bed, it’s only small and a bit cramped, a rather tiny bath that was definitely not built for his long stature, he goes to the sink and begins to scrub at his hands with the lavender soap that waits on the side.

His hands washed and clean, free of whatever sand was plaguing him, Phil leaves the bathroom, door swinging shut behind him as he makes his way to the desk. It sits underneath the largest window of the room. 

The sun is sinking now, and late afternoon light spills into the house, turning everything it touches into gold as shadows start to crawl across the floors and walls.

His typewriter sits, untouched on his desk, a single sheet of paper flops over, almost sad looking. Phil has a temptation, just to press one letter, just to hear the familiar sound of a clacking keys once again. He smiles to himself as his fingers brush over F and G and H before he settles for a Q. The paper jolts and there the letter sits, almost as if it’s curious as to what comes next. Phil huffs a small laugh through his nostrils as his hands trail away from the typewriter, letting the curiously only sit deeper as he turns his back on it.

Glancing at his watch and he still has some time to spare. He drums his fingers against the back of the sofa as he passes by it, and makes his way to the kitchen where he swiftly fills his teapot with water before clumsily plonking it onto the stove as he waits for it to boil.

His eyes lazily drift to sea as he blinks, his vision becoming unfocused. The blue sea and the blue sky seems to melt into one fuzzy, hazy colour, the sun starting to slip away beyond the horizon, colouring the sky in little clouds of pink and orange and yellows.

The teapot starts to whistle, bringing Phil back down to Earth, and he pulls out an old and chipped mug, and makes himself tea, sipping on it, letting it scald his tongue on the way down as he watches the ocean waves roll and break apart with every passing second.

*

Eventually when his tea is gone and the sky starts to turn into a darker blue, Phil checks his watch again and hastily throws his mug into the sink before heading towards the door on the other side of the room, the one beside the bathroom.

He looks up, like he always does, in awe of how many stairs there are, and grimaced - like he always does.

Six months he’s been here, six long months since the year had turned over and he’s still not used to the absolute mountain he has to climb to reach the top of the lighthouse.

He grips the metal railing tight - an old fear bubbles up inside him as he climbs the spiral staircase - a fear that involves him toppling over, falling right to the bottom, but not before his body ping pongs off the railings a few times for good measure.

His breath heavy in his chest, his heart feeling like a rock, he reaches the top, pushing open the old wooden door that’s never properly locked.

His breath catches in his throat. 

The view is something he’ll never tire of. The room is made up of floor to ceiling windows. It makes him feel a little uneasy at first, feeling like he could just fall right through at any moment, but over time he’s grown not to be too afraid.

The light in the middle is off, angled down as if it were sleeping and simply waiting for Phil to come wake her up.

He moves around it, giving it a weird little pat as There’s a door that Phil never opens - a door that leads to the little wrap around balcony.

He hasn’t ventured out there yet, not since the elderly lady who once occupied this home and this job told him that it was old and rusty, and with a thick laugh, she told him that she’d be surprised if it even held her weight at all, never mind a man who towered over her with an extra two foot to spare.

He swallows thickly as he imagines himself standing outside it, the metal flooring giving way where he’d drop, maybe thirty feet into the rocks below, surely breaking and cracking each piece of his body...

He shakes the image from his head and instead sets off to work. He makes sure the light is all in tact, peering in he sees that none of the bulbs seem to be broken, and after another quick check, he’s happy enough to trot down one level.

There, in between the light and the spiral stairs is a small platform. On the wall there’s a little panel box that Phil makes his way to with quick steps.

Still thinking about how long it would take to fall from the top, he manages to switch the level, press a few buttons and eventually he hears the sound of electricity pulsing.

The whirl of the light above him confirms that everything is working, and he smiles to himself as he covers the box back up.

He turns, ready to return back to his room where he might wrap himself up in a few blankets, read a little and ponder on what he might have written on that typewriter if he perhaps had the motivation, when something stops him.

He’s thinking about the small wrap around balcony. He’s thinking about clanging metal, the sound it might make when the wind breezes past him. He’s thinking about what the air smells like from up here; whether it were as salty and as fresh as it is when he’s down on the beach below.

He swallows thickly. Maybe he could take one little look. Like some sort of morbid curiosity, he wants to know if the balcony really would take his weight, even if for just a small moment.

He glances at the stairs below him where a soft sofa awaits him, before he glances up above him where death might be also waiting for him.

His heart pounds against his chest and he takes a sudden breath as he finds himself climbing the stairs back up again.

His palms slip a little against the railing as he pushes himself up, skin sweating as his heart races with a weird kind of thrill.

He’ll only be edging himself out, a few steps for a few seconds, just to feel the wind on his face so he just knows what it feels like.

He’s reached the top door and he knows that he needs to be quick. He can’t be obscuring the light with a large Phil shaped shadow for long, not wanting his stupidity to be the reason for any potential accidents.

He yanks the door open, the wind instantly slaps him against the face and he knows it’s now or never.

The sound of far away waves sound from below as they crash against the rocks. He gulps and takes a wobbly step out. 

The door swings behind him, frame rattles in the wind, sounding like it might take off from its hinges at any given moment.

But Phil’s not thinking about the door right now, and instead he’s worried about what might happen the longer he’s stood outside here, still having rather gruesome visions of him plummeting to a rather grisly and horrific death.

He grips the bars, hands still sweaty and slippery as he wills his feet to move, shuffling a little as he nears the edge.    
  
The wind up here whistles and sings, the sound of the ocean below is so loud and furious it roars with each broken wave coming up, bubbling with a heavy white froth as water meets the sand.   
  
Phil finds his body becoming less tense, easing up as he watches the waves roll and dance below him. The air is fresh against his face and he finds himself grinning. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear his mother’s voice telling him about pulling a face in the wind would make it get stuck like that, but he supposes he wouldn’t mind it all that much when his smile is wide, ear to ear.   
  
He laughs to himself, voice carried away by the wind, lost in the sound of the sea. He laughs louder, spooking a seagull that had swooped beside the lighthouse. He grips the bars so tight his knuckles turn white and despite the summer month being heavy here, it’s still cool.

His eyes are wet from where the wind still slaps him, skin feeling raw and more alive than ever before. He feels a million miles up from the rest of the world, like he could just jump up and take off and become something far more magical than possible.

He’s still laughing when he feels the rattling of the metal around him, causing his laugh to die quickly in his throat, coming out as a weak groan instead as he feels his knees shake, ducking down a little.   
  
Nothing breaks or gives way, and he’s still suspended far above the rocks, and he supposes his one moment of madness has ran it’s luck and he should probably get back indoors before he really does start to think he’s going mad.   
  
He takes a few awkward steps back, not quite ready to let go of the bar just yet, ready to make a quick fumble for the door behind him when suddenly, just as he’s worked up the courage to let his fingers grow lax, he spots something.   
  
Out at sea, just a little way from the shore, he notices something bobbing in the water. It’s hard to see at first, but then the light swings around and for a split second Phil is able to see the illuminated object, not long before it’s plunged back into the darkness again.   
  
But his mouth runs dry, still holding onto the bar with a death grip as he finds himself unable to move, nor tear his eyes away from what he can see in the water.   
  
The light lazily circles back, and it’s then that Phil’s stomach drops, right down to the rocks below him as he has it confirmed to him what it is he’s seeing.   
  
The light is gone again and Phil watches the small boat wreckage disappear into the shadows again. Phil’s heart kicks against his chest. The body he’d seen clinging to it seemed to have slipped. The light goes around once again just in time to see something or someone sink beneath a vicious wave, a hand coming up with an outstretched wave, like a final bow.   
  
Fears be damned, Phil lets go of the bar, spins on his heels, no longer thinking about the metal beneath his feet being weak or old as he breaks into a run.   
  
Skipping two, three steps at a time, he’s never been more thankful for his lanky legs. He’s not concentrating on not slipping and breaking his neck, and instead is trying not to think about whoever was out there in the darkness of the water, slipping and being engulfed in wave after wave. His own chest constricts at the thought of it all.

He reaches his room, slamming out of the door, no time to pick up the telephone and call for help, knowing that someone needed help and needed help now, Phil doesn’t slow down, almost crashing into his sofa, he crosses the room in a sprint in a desperate attempt to reach the beach at some kind of record speed.

The rocks are wet and he has to slow down, his heart still racing as he thinks about the hand, the boat that seemed near enough destroyed and the final wave as it had sunk.   
  
His throat is tight and once his feet are on the sand he runs again, proving to be difficult, almost like running in a dream he keeps going despite the stitch he feels tugging at his ribs.

As he nears the shore he notices bits of wood, netting as well as other bits of debris scattered around him. He pauses, only for a second in shock as he looks at the carnage around him, mouth feeling like he’s swallowed sand. 

He looks up towards the waves and that’s when he sees it.

The body, rolled over by a wave, and then again as it lays face down in the water.   
  
Phil runs straight into the water, slowing him down as he moves against the waves. The body sinks and then comes back up again, and under the silver moonlight Phil can just about make out the shape of it.   
  
_ Please don’t be dead _ , he thinks to himself, over and over again as he gets closer, the water now up to his chest.  _ Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead. _

Phil’s arm reaches out, his shirt and trousers are making him heavier than he is usually and his whole body feels like it’s made out of cement, but his fingers brush against something cold and soft and on instinct he grabs it tight and pulls it. He realises it’s a hand; a hand attached to an arm attached to the body of a man.

Phil pulls with all his might, staggering back against the sand, slipping a few times. Another wave comes up, large and cold and wet and Phil splutters out the water that had invaded his mouth, blinking the burning salt from his eyes.   
  
The body he has a grip on has flipped over and Phil can see his face now. It’s pale and unmoving but Phil doesn’t stop moving, pulling them both closer and closer towards the shore.   
  
The waves actually help this time, bobbing the body up and down, pushing Phil along with every backwards step he takes and soon the water retreats from his chest to his waist to his legs and soon it laps at his ankles only.   
  
The body is heavy, wet clothes and muscles lax, Phil somehow manages to drag it away from the water and onto soft sand.   
  
He collapses, falling behind himself, sand clings to every inch of him.   
  
He scrambles to sit on his knees, looking over the unmoving body.   
  
_ Please don’t be dead _ , he pleads again as he watches how still his chest is.   
  
Phil isn’t sure what to do, panic rises in his throat like hot bile and his eyes still burn but he closes his hands into a fist and takes a deep breath.   
  
_ Please don’t be dead _ , he thinks again as he raises his hands above his head.  _ Just please don’t be dead. _ _   
_   
His hands come down in one swift movement, slamming over his chest. Phil lets out an exhale and - nothing.   
  
Phil sniffs. _ Please don’t be dead. _

He swings again and pounds against his chest hard.  _ Please don’t be dead. _   
  
Again. _ Please don’t be dead. _ Again.  _ Please don’t be dead. _

Phil isn’t sure if the wetness on his face is the last of the ocean water clinging to his skin, or maybe it’s the tears from the salt in his eyes or the fact that with each slam against his chest, the person sprawled out against the sand doesn’t even flinch.

Phil’s chest stutters as he looks at him, face pale, lashes wet against his cheeks. He feels scared and angry. He can’t let this person die. He dragged him from the water, pulled him through the wreckage and now he’s just still on the beach, still and so, so cold looking. Phil’s stomach wrenches as the idea that maybe he’s been dead for a long time already, and the hand he saw reaching out was just a trick of the light… and maybe his efforts were just a little too late.   
  
He shakes the thought from his head and sucks in a breath. He can’t let this person die.   
  
He raises his fist high above his head and swings down, letting out a grunt as his hands connect with his wet shirt, the space above his heart.   
  
Everything is still for a moment, and Phil has to wonder how long he can go on for before knowing enough is enough, when suddenly — 

The man’s eyes snap open, wild and wide. His chest does a weird kind of hiccup and then, without thinking too much, Phil grabs a handful of his shirt and yanks him up. The man coughs and then splutters, water spurts from his mouth in a series of violent coughs. He stops, taking gulps of breath as sea water and spit runs down his chin, his breathing is heavy and slow, fingers dig deep into the sand beneath him as the pair of them sit in silence, the sound of the waves moving behind them.   
  
The man lets out a low breath, eyes squeezing shut when his hand comes up to touch as his chest, rubbing it with a hiss - Phil would apologise but right now he reckons he’s in a bit of shock from seeing someone literally come back from the dead.   
  
The man blinks his eyes open, probably experiencing the same burning feeling Phil still feels within his own eyes and turns his head to look at him. Phil still has a fistful of his shirt, hand trembling a little, more so than it had done when he was at the top of the lighthouse.   
  
“You–” his voice is raspy and low. He coughs again, face scrunches up before relaxing again. “You saved my life,” he tells him.   
  
Phil isn’t really sure what to say;  _ you’re welcome _ seems to be the first thing that pops into his head, but words escape him, and his tongue is as heavy as whale blubber and instead he just nods weakly.   
  
The man takes another few steady breaths before he slowly lays back down on the sand, catching his breath as he looks up at the sky which is now a velvety dark blue. Phil is still trembling when a gentle, much larger hand comes up to pat at his closed fist around the shirt he’s gripping, making his fingers relax a little.   
  
“Thanks,” the man rasps, his hand slipping from his.   
  
Phil drops his shirt and ends up laying down on the sand too, feeling it itch against his wet, salty skin, taking in a few deep breaths of his own as he tries to wrap it around his head as to what just happened. A few stars twinkle above them, the waves still rolling behind them and Phil feels his chest finally relax, no longer tight.   
  
He swallows thickly, head turning to look at the man sprawled out next to him, an odd scene surely to anyone who happened to walk by.   
  
He opens his mouth, feeling his throat run dry when he manages to speak, feeling like he himself is dunked underneath the water. A shooting star passes above them, a billion miles away when Phil says in a rather breathless voice,   
  
“Any time.”


	2. Chapter 2

Phil has to help the stranger up, pulling him up from the sand, a lot heavier than he looks, practically dead weight as his legs tremble and shake beneath him, whatever newfound strength Phil had found moments ago with pulling him from the water and slamming his fists against his chest seems to have melted away, becoming quite apparent as Dan sways, his body pushed against his, Phil feels the strain of getting him across the beach and back up the rocks towards the lighthouse where he had offered his refuge until they could figure everything out and get the man something to drink that wasn’t salty, his voice is scratchy and sore sounding from the copious amount of sea water ingested from his time beneath water.   
  
Phil gets him into the house, kicking the door behind him with his heel, untangling himself from the man as he stands in the middle of the room, little droplets of water drip off of him.   
  
“I have a bathroom,” Phil says dumbly. “If you wanted to warm up? I’ll get you a towel.”   
  
He doesn’t even have the chance to let him refuse before he’s going to his bed where he keeps a stack of towels beneath it. Grabbing one, he spins around on his heel to face the man who’s watching him.   
  
“It’s just through here,” Phil says quickly, reaching across to yank the door open to reveal his little washroom, his tub sitting there as if it were ready for him.   
  
He watches the man blink at the small room and then back at Phil. “You… you don’t mind? If I use your hot water?” He asks, and it’s then that Phil notices he’s actually shivering. His chest lurches at the idea that it might not be only from the nighttime water.   
  
He simply shakes his head and holds the towel out. The man takes a few sluggish steps, and then takes it in his hands, a thumb running over the soft fabric before he looks up at Phil again.   
  
“Fill the tub and take as long as you need,” Phil tells him. “Do you drink tea?”   
  
The man nods, his eyes avoiding his.    
  
“Good,” Phil finds himself saying. “I’ll have one ready for you as well as some spare clothes.”   
  
The man sniffs and Phil pretends like he can’t see that the man in front of him isn’t clearly crying.   
  
After a long stretch of weird silence, the man speaks,   
  
“Thank you,” he says in a whispered voice.    
  
Their eyes meet, the man’s are glistening in the dull light.

Phil smiles something small at him, not out of pity, but maybe relief.    
  
He shrugs. “Not a problem.”   
  
Phil turns his back to the kitchen, ready to turn around and re-boil the kettle and for the first time in six months, make tea for two. He stops however, when he hears a little cough, turning back around, half afraid to see the man collapsed back on the floor, water dribbling back out of his mouth with a dead look in his eyes.   
  
But he isn’t. He’s still stood in the middle of the room, shoulders hunched making him look much smaller than he really is, and the towel held tightly to his still trembling body.   
  
Phil looks at him, his lips part to speak.   
  
“I didn’t catch your name,” is what he does say.   
  
Phil feels the corners of his lips tug into a faint smile. He shifts his weight from one leg to another.   
  
“It’s Phil,” he tells him.   
  
The man nods, looking as if he’d taken the name like it were a sip of the fanciest wine, mulling it over when he swallowed and smiled. “Phil,” he said, and Phil nodded in response.   
  
“Well, thanks, for saving my life, Phil.”    
  
Phil wasn’t sure what else was to be said, so he said nothing.   
  
The man takes an awkward shuffle towards the bathroom, looking for a small moment as if he’s even contemplating saying anything else. But he stops and looks at Phil, something faintly confident in his expression, running deep and weathered.   
  
“I’m Dan,” he tells him.   
  
Phil nods, just like he had done. “Dan,” he repeats.   
  
Dan nods, and with that he disappears into the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a soft click. 

*   
  
Phil listens to the sound of water running. It trickles from behind the door as Phil lets the water boil on the stove, pressing a finger around the rim of his mug as he waits.   
  
He looks back out of the window again, a scene totally different from earlier today. Instead of a bright, wonderful view that looked like some kind of expensive looking painting, the outside world now looked like smudged ink, running across a water blotted page, dark and runny and unclear.   
  
Eventually the running water stops and Phil strains his ear against the silence to hear the sound of Dan moving around, ripples of water echoing from the room.   
  
It’s a stark difference to the sound of the roaring ocean outside - something far more gentler, something more controlled. Phil grips the sides of the countertop as he steadies himself.   
  
He just saved someone’s life. Had he just turned around and gone downstairs Dan would have drowned, sure enough found, body limp and lifeless the next morning when he’d go down to the beach to read.   
  
Or worse yet, he would have been dragged out to sea, not a soul to know of what had happened to him, maybe only his boat left of what had happened.   
  
That in itself was a whole other question: what  _ had _ happened? 

Phil is left pondering these thoughts, letting them ping pong inside his own head as he shakily makes two mugs of tea when he hears a soft cough come from behind him, causing him to spin around so fast he almost falls over his feet.   
  
Dan’s stood there, towel wrapped around his middle, looking a little lost, his mouth opens and closes a few times as if he’s trying to find the words. Phil’s patient enough to wait for him.   
  
“I left you some of the hot water,” he croaks, weakly jerking a thumb behind him towards the bathroom. “Your clothes are all wet.”

It’s then that Phil suddenly feels cold, remembering he too had been submerged in the water. Sand still sticks to his clothes, probably creating a small trail around the room as it had flaked off of him in the last few minutes.   
  
Phil nods. “Oh. Thanks.” He’s not sure why he’s thanking a stranger for allowing him to use his own bath, but Phil once again is void for anything else to say.   
  
He looks at Dan, still stood there in his borrowed towel.   
  
“Do you have clothes?” Dan asks then, jolting Phil to move.   
  
“Of course,” he nods, moving towards his little bedroom corner. “Let me find you something…”   
  
He trails off as he sorts through something he could lend to Dan. He’s shuffling through a few shirts when he hears his small voice behind him.   
  
“My… my boat,” he starts, and Phil straightens up to turn around back at him.

“My boat,” he repeats. “Did you see it? Was it alright?”   
  
Phil swallows thickly as he remembers the damage that was currently spread across the beach as well as floating around in the water, long gone by now.   
  
He shakes his head sadly, watching Dan inhale sharply at the motion. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “It looked like it was pretty much destroyed.”   
  
Dan blinks at him and then turns his gaze towards the floor. “Oh,” he simply says in a quiet voice.   
  
Phil looks at him, chewing the inside of his cheek as the half naked stranger just stands there, a little puddle of water trickling at his feet, he makes no effort to move, face blank as if he’s only now taking it in what happened.   
  
Phil opens his mouth to speak but stops himself. Maybe now wouldn’t be a good enough time to ask what had happened - or maybe it didn’t matter. He didn’t know Dan and Dan didn’t know him.    
  
He finds a shirt and pulls it towards himself, looking at Dan again.   
  
“Do you have anywhere to go tonight, Dan?” He asks.   
  
Dan looks up at him, his eyes are red still but a little glossy. He smiles something sad and hurt.    
  
“I don’t think so,” he tells him, voice so quiet it could have been part of the air around them. 

“Someone to go  _ to _ ?” He tries, rubbing the fabric of the shirt between his fingers.

Dan shakes his head again. “I can’t remember.”

He stops short to look at him.   
  
“You don’t remember?” He questions him.   
  
Dan looks down and then shakes his head. “No.”

Phil looks down at his shirt, thinking before he quickly puts it away and instead pulls out a nightshirt instead, handing it to Dan before he can even think about stopping himself.

Dan takes it, looking rather dumbfounded and before he has a chance to speak Phil is already opening his mouth.

“You can stay the night,” he tells him, already pulling out a pair of night trousers, thrusting them into his hands. “I’ll take the sofa. You can have the bed. But not before you finish your tea,” he adds, sounding eerily similar to his mother. He’ll make sure he’s warm and safe and well rested before he questions him anymore. And it’s then that he really does start to feel like his mother.

He turns back around, walking to the sofa where he’s already getting his blankets ready for later when he hears a squeak. He turns back around and looks at Dan who is yet to move.

He has a faint smile stretched across his lips.

“Um. Thank you. Really. It’s… it’s too kind of you,” Dan stutters, head ducking down as he holds the shirt to his chest, almost as if he’s only now becoming aware of how naked he is.

Phil smiles at him as he smooths out the blanket on the back of the sofa. 

“It’s no problem.”

*

Phil gets into the bath, smiling in the fact that Dan did in fact leave him some warm water to stop the chill getting in. 

He dresses into his own pyjamas, drinks his tea like he does every night, except this night, there’s a man in his bed, sat on the edge rather awkwardly like he’s waiting on being told what to do.

Phil’s clearing the mugs up in the sink when he hears,

“Where are we?”

Phil wrinses the bubbles off his hands when he turns around to see Dan sat, looking at him with a perplexed look about him. 

Phil stares at it him, “Bassett Cove,” he tells him, “or at least, a little way from there. You from the area?”

Dan frowns, like he doesn’t fully understand the words he’s saying, and then he shakes his head. “No,” he tells him, eyes flicker back up. “No. I’m not sure, but it’s not here.”

Phil’s stomach clenches as he watches the way the confusion and frustration on his face runs through the lines and the creases of his face as it scrunches up. He’s heard of this happening - memories falling out of someone’s head, but he didn’t know how to deal with it. Maybe a doctor? But what could they do? If the memories Dan had lost were at the bottom of the ocean where he probably last had them, what good would a doctor do to get them back?

He’s watching him carefully, chewing the inside of his cheek when he opens his mouth, clearing his throat first as Dan looks up at him, pulled from whatever deep thought he was sinking into.   
  
“Do you fish?” He tries. “Your boat... “

Dan swallows thickly and nods,

“Yeah. I, uh. I guess I do. Or did, at least,” he says with a dry laugh. 

“And you can’t remember how you got there?” Phil presses him. “Or what happened?”

Dan shakes his head again. There’s no visible injury to it, it all seems to be on the inside to Phil, which is more worrying than a gash or a bruise he could easily treat.

“I don’t,” Dan croaks, sounding like he’s genuinely sorry for it. “The last thing I remember is holding onto the boat when I went over. Then I must have blacked out… then I was on the sand, with you.”

Dan looks up at him then, his eyes gleam under the small light.

Phil sucks in a long breath and blows it back out, unsure of what to really say or do next.

Phil feels a pang of sadness as he thinks about the torn nets and the boat, splintered apart, reduced to nothing. Perhaps it was his livelihood.

Perhaps it was the closest thing to home. And he didn’t even know it.

His thoughts are interrupted when Dan gives a soft cough, shifting on the bed, the old mattress creaks beneath his weight.

“This place,” he starts, his brows knitted together with an odd amount of curiosity. “Is there a train station nearby?”

Phil balks. “What?”

Dan looks at him, like he’s seriously debating his words so very carefully, when his eyes seem to look right into his for the first time all night, his chest inhales and he shifts once again, the bed gives a soft groan.

“Well,” he says with an awkward shrug. “I can’t really stay here, can I?”

Phil is about to protest, open his mouth and bark at him for being utterly ridiculous. Because how the hell is someone who doesn’t even know who or where he is supposed to know where home is?   
  
Is there even such a thing as home for him?

But he doesn’t protest and he doesn’t voice any of his thoughts that are swirling inside his brain like a raging storm. Instead he lets out a small sigh,   
  
“There’s a station,” is all he says and Dan seems to be satisfied with that answer, smiling at him like he’s suddenly given him all the answers ever known to man.

“Great,” he nods. “Well. Goodnight Phil,” he says in a muffled voice as yet another yawn escapes him.

Phil watches as he crawls into his bed, pulling back the blankets and settling his head against his pillow like he belonged.

Dan doesn’t close his eyes just yet, looking at Phil, and Phil looking at Dan.

“Thanks again,” he says in a smaller voice, pulling the blankets up to his chin. “For everything.”

Phil swallows thickly like sand was still in his mouth and finds himself smiling something thin. He wonders if Dan will be here in the morning, still mulling it over in his head if he should even let him go. He yawns, the weight of today already so heavy on his shoulders,

“Yeah,” he says dumbly. “No problem at all.”

Then,

“Goodnight, Dan.”

And with that, he turns off the light and crawls onto the sofa, wrapping the blanket around his body, listening to the sound of Dan’s breathing as it grows slower and deeper with each passing second.

*

Phil wakes up feeling groggy.

That’s the second thing he registers. The first thing is that his alarm clock is ringing.

When he sits up he almost forgets where he is - he’s laid out on the sofa instead of his bed, which means he almost forgets why there’s a man sat in his bed instead, his heart flies into his throat when suddenly the memory of last night comes flooding back into his mind like a giant tidal wave.

He rubs an eye with his knuckle as he falls off the sofa, padding towards his alarm where he’s able to shut it up.

Dan, who looks wide awake, is blinking up at him, his curls a ruffled mess, purple rings beneath his eyes and his cheeks are all puffed up.

“Sorry,” Phil yawns, scratching at his stomach lazily. “Stupid alarm, stupid light.”

He’s not sure if Dan either understood or even heard what he said, but stranger in his bed be damned because Phil still had a job to do.

He shoves his feet into his slippers, grabs his dressing gown from the bathroom door, passing Dan who’s still sat up in bed, as Phil opens the door and heads up the stairs.

He’s halfway up when he hears the sound of something moving behind him. Pausing, he turns his head around to see Dan standing there, his pyjamas cuffed around his ankles, the sleeves of his shirt only reaching midway down his forearms.

They stare at each other for a moment, unmoving and silent, a breeze moves past them causing a wave of goosebumps to erupt across his skin.

“Sorry,” Dan stammers, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and from the few steps Phil has on him, he looks smaller at this angle, his curls flip over his face, covering his eyes almost.

“It’s just that… well, if you’re busy, I can go, if you want?” Dan starts after Phil fails to say anything. 

Phil just blinks at him.

“You said about the train station,” Dan adds, a hand coming up to rub at his neck in an awkward manner. “I’m not familiar with this place so if you could, y’know, point me in the direction, as well as maybe let me borrow some clothes–“

“I’ll take you,” is what eventually Phil does manage to say, and Dan gives him an odd look.

“Oh,” he says, straightening up a bit from where he’s stood in the doorway. “Oh. Um. Sure. If… if you don’t mind?”

Phil swallows thickly; he’s not sure what he’s doing, but he feels like he should at least see the guy off.

“Course not,” he says with a shake of his head, scuffing the toe of his slipper on the step. “We can get breakfast too,” he adds. “If you like.”

It’s then that Phil’s stomach gives a growl. He laughs almost shamefully. “I haven’t got food here, but I know a good cafe that does a proper breakfast?”

Dan’s lips tug into a slight smile and he lets out a breath that sounds like a small laugh. 

“Okay,” he says with a heavy nod. “Sure. Thank you, Phil.”

Phil smiles at him before turning around and climbing the remainder of the steps.

*

Phil lets Dan borrow his clothes, much to Dan’s insistent apologising as well as thanking a million times over that when they’re leaving the house Phil has to threaten to let him starve if he doesn’t shut up.

Dan goes quiet and for a moment as they walk across the beach, he wonders if maybe that was too far of a joke for someone he doesn’t really know at all, but Dan gives out a breathy laugh and apologies before laughing again.

The walk to the cafe really isn’t all that far; a walk Phil’s since been accustomed to, and when he pushes the door open, the bell gives a little jingle, Dan following close by as they take their seats on the booth beside the window.

Phil pushes the menu towards Dan with a finger.

“Aren’t you gonna look?” Dan asks, a puzzled look across his face as he peels the paper up off the table and just as Phil is about to answer, a woman appears at their table.

“Phil, my sweetness!”

Phil smiles at the lady, beaming down on him, her hair in tight curls, already pulling her notebook from her apron pocket.

“Good morning Ms JoJo,” he says with a polite nod.

She hums, her red lips are stretched wide, her eyes are dark and glistening.

“No need to know what you want, hm dear?” She says and Phil lets out a breath through his nostrils.

“Nope,” he nods. “Just the usual.”

Ms JoJo grins before turning her attention towards Dan, who’s shrunk down in his seat a little, almost as if he’s trying to hide behind the menu.

“And what can I get you, dear? A friend of darling Philip here?”

Dan looks up, looking like he’s only now pretending to notice her presence, and he clears his throat and makes a face that would make a mother proud.   
  
“Oh,” he says like he’s been caught short. “Um, well, whatever he’s having I suppose,” he says with a nod towards Phil, handing the menu into Miss JoJo’s outstretched hand, her nails so neat and colourful.   
  
She grins still and nods. “Of course my darling, I’ll be right back with that.”   
  
She leaves, her heels clip clopping as he goes and Dan looks at Phil, raising his brows.   
  
“You better have good taste in breakfasts,” he comments and Phil snorts a short laugh.   
  
“Trust me,” he says leaning in a little towards Dan across the table, “I have only the best taste in breakfast.”   
  
Dan seems to take his word for it, because he smiles at Phil as he relaxes in his seat and Phil does the same. 

It doesn’t take too long for Miss JoJo to return, balancing two plates on her arms, two mugs gripped in her hands too.   
  
She sets them down, tells them to enjoy and trots off to the next customer.   
  
Phil’s picking his fork up off the table when he shoots Dan a look across the table.   
  
“I hope you like pancakes,” he tells him as he already starts to cut into his food.   
  
He catches Dan’s gaze, a smile escaping his lips.   
  
“Can’t say I hate them in all honesty.”

Phil shoves the forkful of pancake into his mouth and watches as Dan starts to shovel the food into his mouth, not even taking a second to draw breath.   
  
Phil stops, his fork mid air as he watches Dan almost demolish the small stack of pancakes before him, settling his fork down as his tongue darts across his top lip to catch the syrup there, grabbing his mug, peering in to see the coffee that he’d ordered and chugging it down. Phil feels a squirming feeling in his gut as he thinks about how last night he’d basically sent Dan to sleep with nothing more than a small cup of tea.   
  
He looks up and Phil’s eyes dart back down to his own plate.   
  
He tentatively cuts up his food before looking at Dan again.   
  
“If you’re hungry, I can always get you something else to eat?” Phil suggests and Dan’s face burns red. “Miss JoJo does a really good cooked breakfast…” he suggests, voice trailing off as Dan shakes his head.   
  
“Uh, no. Gosh, no, that’s - that’s really kind of you but you’ve done enough really.”   
  
His head is ducked down and he looks like he’s painfully avoiding looking Phil in the eye.   
  
Phil chews on his food when Dan clears his throat, sounding like he’s building up the courage to speak again.   
  
“Phil,” he says, looking him in the eye this time. “I can’t pay you back for this,” he tells him straight.   
  
Phil doesn’t flinch, and instead shrugs, stuffing another forkful in his mouth. “S’okay,” he mumbles as he swallows down his food.   
  
“It isn’t,” Dan shakes his head in disagreement. “You’re really been too kind…”   
  
“You nearly  _ drowned _ , Dan,” Phil reminds him pointedly.

Dan pushes his plate away with his thumb. “Wouldn’t have been the worst thing,” he mentions with a low mumble.

Phil takes a sip of his coffee, burning on the way down as he mulls over his words in his head.

Dan still has his head down, his thumb runs across the edge of the table as Phil watches him closely.

He’s thinking about last night; his pale face and his unmoving chest, and now here he was sat at the small beachside cafe, worried about money and pancakes. He’s also thinking about how Dan’s brain and trains and long journeys and more accidents that are bound to follow him when he’s in this state.

Phil sets his mug down, loud enough to have Dan raise his head to look at him.

“How are you planning on getting a train?” Phil asks.

Dan balks at him but he doesn’t look like he can't genuinely come up with an answer. 

After opening and closing his mouth like some sort of fish for a few moments, he shrugs.

“I’ll jump it,” he tells him in a nonchalant tone that Phil can tell is partially forced. “I don’t  _ need _ a ticket.

Phil rubs a finger around the rim of his mug. “And what do you expect to do when you get to wherever you’re going?” He asks before adding, “If you even know where you’re going.”

Dan genuinely looks stuck, like a deer caught in the headlights, shrinking down in his seat slightly.

“I’ll figure that out when I get there,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest with a rather defensive tone.

Phil takes the last bite of his pancake, not once taking his eyes off Dan as he sips at his drink.

“What?” He says as he swallows the mouthful of lava down. “You think you’ll just stumble around until you might eventually find your way home? Dan, you can’t do that.”

Dan gives a tiny flinch, his arms across his chest relax and his expression softens just slightly. It’s the crack that Phil needs to poke his fingers through.

“You have no money, no direction or any idea what you’re doing. You can’t even afford to buy a cup of coffee,” Phil says nodding towards his empty cup, making Dan look down at it with a small look.

“If you need help then… I can do that,” Phil then says, a much more softer tone.

Dan’s arms slip away from his chest and his shoulders sag. He looks down, eyes flickering towards Phil, brows knit together.

“Why do you insist on helping me?” He asks, deep curiosity settles over his expression.

Now it’s Phil’s turn to look away, focusing on the syrup on his plate he has the urge to run a finger through it. 

He doesn’t, and instead looks up at Dan, right into his dark eyes.

“I pulled you from the damned ocean face down thinking you were dead. I’m not worrying myself sick by letting you go off to god knows where to let yourself be almost killed again.”

It comes out in a rushed breath and for a long second Phil wishes he could just eat up his words; he doesn’t know Dan, nor does Dan know him. He shouldn’t care about a stranger as much as he does right now, but everytime he closes his eyes he can’t help but have the same horrifying image of Dan swarming his mind like it was the ocean itself, flooding him to the point he couldn’t breathe.   
  
He watches Dan swallow, his Adam’s apple gives a short bob and he looks at Phil from across the table, something genuine in his eyes.   
  
“And what would you have to offer me?” Dan asks, voice low. A young woman and boy with an arm wrapped around her shoulders come skipping in. Ms JoJo is quick to serve them where they slip into a nearby booth, sucking each other's faces off and it makes Phil’s gut squirm as he looks away.   
  
“You’re a fisherman, yeah?” He asks him.   
  
Dan looks like he’s about to hesitate. He nods instead. “Yes,” he tells him. “But I don’t have a boat.”   
  
Phil chews his thoughts for a moment. Miss JoJo is striding across the room with two large milkshakes; the couple take no notice to her as she sets them down, muttering under her breath about damn teenagers.   
  
“I could get you a new boat,” Phil suggests - working on a beach for the last half of the year had meant he had learnt more things about the sea as well as the people that worked and lived out there more than he had guessed he would have when he took the job at the beginning of the year.   
  
“And what would you have me do?” Dan asks.   
  
Phil gives a huffed laugh. ‘Catch me fish obviously,” is his suggestion. “There’s a lot of competition around here which makes it rather expensive. You could catch me fish and I’d help you out.”   
  
Dan frowns, brows furrow together as he takes in Phil’s offer. He knew it wasn’t an insane idea - all he had to do was fish, catch him some fish in exchange for a place to stay and enough money for him to save for when he was ready to go again.   
  
Dan pats the table with his palms and Phil finds himself staring down at them - they were large, larger than his, fingers long but chubby. They were strong hands, Phil thought. Rather large, strong hands.   
  
“Alright,” Dan says quickly, like he’s rushing the words out before he can back himself out of it and Phil looks back up at him with quick reflexes. “I’ll do it.”   
  
“Great,” Phil says, a wide smile on his face. “You can stay at my place.”   
  
Dan’s face goes a little white. “What?”   
  
Phil shifts on his seat. “Well…” he says waving a careless hand in the air, “you don’t have a place to stay yet… and I found out last night my sofa isn’t a such a horrible place for you to sleep…” he says, trailing off, studying the look of unease on Dan’s face with each spoken word.   
  
He swallows again, like he’s being strangled and he leans in a little closer, looking around with skeptical looks about him as the couple behind them laugh.   
  
“Yes but, wouldn’t that look…” he gives Phil a desperate look, pausing for a moment like he’s trying to put the words into his mind alone. “Odd?” He says when it doesn’t work.   
  
Phil sucks a breath in through his nose and looks away from Dan. He thinks he knows what he’s talking about - two men, sharing a house with just one bed. It would indeed look…  _ odd _ , as Dan had put it. But it wouldn’t be forever.    
  
“Nobody would know,” Phil tells him with an air of confidence, though he keeps his voice low nonetheless. “I get no visitors.”   
  
Dan looks like he wants to say something but Phil’s quick to cut across him instead.   
  
“Look,” he says, putting his hands down on the table like Dan had done before. “I’m not gonna keep you held captive. If you want to leave and wonder about the whole of the west coast, be my guest. But right now I’d like to help you. Can you let me help you, Dan?”   
  
Dan is looking at him like he’s thinking hard.   
  
Then,   
  
“No,” Dan says with a nod. “You’re right. You’ve been kind. Thank you Phil.”   
  
Phil blinks. “So you’ll stay?” He asks, trying to hide the genuine shock in his voice, sure that Dan was going to walk away for good.   
  
Dan sighs heavily before he reaches across the table, his finger drags through the syrup on Phil’s plate before sucking it into his mouth, a smile forms around his finger as he lets it go with a pop and all Phil can do is watch.   
  
“What choice do I really have?” He asks with a slight smile. 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s after breakfast (that Phil pays for) that they decide to take a walk to the docks.    
  
“And you don’t mind… getting me a boat?” Dan asks for the billionth time as the start to reach the row of boats bobbing up and down, a fresh wave of fishy air hits them causing them both to grimace.   
  
Phil shakes his head and tells him what he’d told him already:

“It’s not gonna be fancy or spectacular, it’ll just be a boat. Something cheap but usable.”   
  
Dan looks like he wants to protest, maybe continue testing Phil but before he can Phil’s glancing sideways at him and Dan’s lips purse shut.   
  
There at the end, stood on a slowly rocking boat stands the man Phil was hoping to see here; he’s short, stumpy, a round belly protrudes from underneath his shirt, his suspenders look like they might ping off at any given moment. He turns, bending down to do something. He has thick grey brows as well as a matching mustache that sits on top of his stiff upper lip. His nose is wonky, looking like it had probably been broken a few times in his life and Phil and Dan nears him just as he’s pulling up a crate of wet, dead fish, their big lifeless eyes look right up at him, making Phil grimace.   
  
“Ah, Lester,” Mr Stanley speaks in a gruff voice, standing up and stretching his back out when he sees Phil walking towards him.   
  
Phil nods politely at him, stopping in front of the boat, the man bobbing up and down where he stands, rising and sinking in an uneven pattern. “Good morning Mr Stanley,” he smiles.   
  
Mr Stanley doesn’t care to smile back.   
  
“So my boy,” he grunts. “You here for fish?” He says, already turning around to view what he has behind him, almost slipping on the wet deck, but Phil cuts him short.   
  
“Actually Mr Stanley,” he says in a rushed voice. “I, uh. I was wondering if you knew where I could purchase a… a boat.”   
  
Mr Stanley looks at Phil, his beady little eyes narrow towards him, and then, for the first time, he looks at Dan who’s silently stood beside him.   
  
“A boat?” He barks. “What in the ruddy hell do you want a boat for? Aren’t you supposed to be keepin’ them away from yer? Eh?”   
  
Phil shifts on the stop before clearing his throat.   
  
“Well, technically, yes,” he says with a forced laugh. Mr Stanley does not laugh. “But it’s not for me,” Phil then tells him. “My…” he looks to Dan hopelessly,”...friend here. He’s from outside town, he needs a boat.”   
  
Now it’s Dan's turn to be subjected to his death stare, and much like Phil, Dan doesn’t dare say a word.   
  
After a stretched out silence between the three of them, Mr Stanley speaks again,   
  
“So where you from boy? Not got fish good enough from where you’ve come from, eh? Thought you’d come have a poke around our coasts, did yer?”   
  
Dan remains silent, like he’s in some kind of stunned shock of the man’s bluntness, but luckily Phil’s long since used to it, and pipes up for him,   
  
“He’s from Phillack,” Phil finds himself blurting out. “You know what it’s like down there Mr Stanley sir.”   
  
Phil’s smiling at him, something bordering on encouraging and manic, hoping that the old man won't push for any more questions. And it seems to work when he grunts, evidence of a slight smile on his face when he shakes his head in despair.    
  
“That I do know my boy,” he tuts, looking up at Dan with a sorry kind of expression. “Bet yer glad you got away eh?’   
  
Dan looks at Phil, mouth opens and closes soundlessly like a fish when he looks back at Mr Stanley and nods.   
  
“Er, yeah,” he stutters, clearing his throat in an attempt to sound less dumbfounded. “Sure. Absolutely.”   
  
Mr Stanley gives another gruff laugh, one leg comes up, a stubby booted foot comes to rest upon the edge of the boat.   
  
“So yers want a boat, eh?” He asks them, one hand on his hip, managing quite well to keep his balance on the bobbing boat.   
  
Dan and Phil look at each other and then back at Mr Stanley.   
  
“Sure,” Phil tells him. Mr Stanley smiles, teeth showing like a manic dog as he laughs.   
  
“I got one tha’s perfect for a couple of fools like yourselves.”   
  
Neither of them complain as they follow him as he hops off the boat and onto the floor beside them.   
  
The boat he shows them is certainly smaller than his own fishing boat. In fact, it barely looks like it could pass for a boat, rather than an actual fishing boat.   
  
The three of them stand on the docks, looking at where the poor thing is floating about, just about tethered to the rope that keeps it from escaping. It looks half rotten, like it’ll give out with just the weight of a shrimp, let alone the weight of a man.   
  
“It’s the cheapest one I’ve got,” Mr Stanley tells him again.   
  
Phil looks at Dan who once again is just stood there, looking rather hopeless. Phil sighs; he supposes he really is the one that holds that kind of power right now.   
  
He reaches for his wallet with a reluctant sigh. As long as it’ll catch fish and keep Dan’s weight, it will have to do for now.   
  
“Thirty, yeah?” Phil asks and Mr Stanley nods viciously, a tongue comes up to tickle the whiskers of his stache.   
  
Phil pulls the money from his wallet, glances at Dan who gives him a shy smile as Mr Stanley snatches it into his grubby hands, Phil mutters a thank you as the man leaves them, rubbing the edge of the note with his fat, dirty thumb and his forefinger.   
  
When Phil turns around to look at Dan, he gives him an expectant look.   
  
“You know how to get it out of here, hm?”   
  
Dan swallows and it gives Phil the impression that maybe he isn’t sure.

  
But Dan nods, looking at the boat and then back at Phil again. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Course. Give me a hand, yeah?”   
  
*   
  
Phil doesn’t like the ocean.   
  
From a distance, sure, it’s wonderful and beautiful and reminds him of his father’s watercoloured paintings, stretched out in magnificent blue’s and golden swipes of a brush with the idea of a vision behind it.   
  
But Phil realises, when he’s bobbing up and down the choppy waves that Dan’s navigating them through, his stomach flip flopping around inside himself, that he really does not enjoy the sea when he’s at this particular angle of it.   
  
He tries to think about standing on the sand, or up on the deck of the lighthouse to keep his mind at bay, willing himself to think of anything else rather than his churning stomach and what it would look like for his pancakes to make a spectacular reappearance on the deck.   
  
Well, he thinks, he’d just get Dan to clear it up, he tells himself.   
  
But he’s not going to be sick, the voice inside his brain reminds him. He’s keeping a focus on the horizon like Dan had told him, but the waves are still rolling rather enthusiastically beneath him that it’s near impossible to ignore the weird clench in his gut every time he’s jostled up and down in an unsteady rhythm.   
  
Dan however seems unfazed, keeping his balance near perfect as he steers the boat from the small wooden hut near the front.   
  
There’s old nets strewn about, other things Phil has no clue about, and he supposes it might take a day or two to get the boat in a condition good enough for Dan to use for the majority of the day.   
  
The engine gives an awful sounding lurch and Phil tries not to force the images of them going up in a giant ball of flames, but Dan swears under his breath and Phil gulps, the nightmare inside his mind feeling more and more likely.   
  
Thankfully they manage to get back to the cove.   
  
It’s a little while away from the lighthouse, but there’s a place that will keep the boat safe for now.   
  
“It’ll need fixing,” Dan tells him as everything finally,  _ finally _ goes still.   
  
He’s wobbly on his legs when he touches down on the sand.

“What kind of fixing?” Phil asks, clearing his voice to rid of the queasiness that lingers there. He glances at Dan, hoping he hadn’t heard or seen the unevenness he’s still feeling.

Dan purses his lips together, swallowing an obvious smile, but walks side by side with Phil as they make their way back towards the lighthouse.   
  
“Not much,” he tells him, hands finding their way into his pockets. “Maybe a lick of paint. It’s a bit ugly.”   
  
They both look back at where the sad old boat sits up on the sand away from the shore.   
  
“Just a bit,” Phil laughs, looking back at Dan.   
  
He realises now, as they walk along the beach, that until now Phil hadn’t really looked at Dan.   
  
His curls were long and messy, windswept everytime the breeze blew through them. His skin was a touch darker than Phil’s own, evidence that he probably tanned better than he did, also proven by the freckles that dotted over his face, the long slope of his nose looked like it had never once been broken, unlike his own, and his lashes were long against his cheeks when he blinked, reminding him of when a woman would wear makeup there…   
  
His stomach did a funny turn and he looked down and away.   
  
“So,” Dan’s voice carries easily over the sound of crashing waves behind them. “You from around here?” He asks, looking up at him.   
  
Phil glances up quickly before concentrating on the sand once again. His own hands are now shoved into his pockets rather awkwardly but he doesn’t think Dan will notice.   
  
“No,” he tells him with a shake of his head as he kicks a small shell with his shoe. “I moved here half a year ago.”   
  
Dan makes a surprised noise with his throat and Phil looks at him with a frown.   
  
“Why’re you surprised?” He asks.   
  
Dan’s lips curve into a small, telling smile. “Dunno,” he says honestly. “You seem like you’re part of the world here.”   
  
Phil swallows thickly, the lighthouse grows closer now.    
  
“What does that mean?” He asks, breath coming out in short puffs now as he gives a half laugh.    
  
He looks to Dan for an answer but he doesn’t say anything, simply shrugging lazily.   
  
A moment of silence stretches out between them, a seagull above them coos.   
  
“Well,” Phil says after a while, “I don’t think I’m part of this world,” he says in a smaller voice. “It feels the opposite sometimes.”   
  
He looks down at the sand beneath his shoes, giving way to each of his steps. In the corner of his eye, Dan looks at him, gaze unmoving for a moment.   
  
“Really?” He asks.   
  
Phil looks at him, his eyes brown and warm. “Yes,” he tells him, voice soft.   
  
Dan gives a half smile, something edging on sad and sweet, toeing the edge like where the water meets the sand.   
  
“I wish I knew,” Dan tells him in a small voice. “I wish I knew where my world is.”   
  
Phil;s chest gets oddly tight as he looks at Dan. Could he have a family? A wife, perhaps? Children that were maybe waiting for their father to return? It’s a strange feeling that he probably knows as much about Dan as Dan knows about himself. He tries to imagine his own brain, all his memories being knocked loose, not fully understanding where he came from and where he was going. He thinks about his mother and what she would say.    
  
“It’ll come to you,” Phil tells him, voice swelling above the roar of the ocean, feeling weirdly confident.

Dan squints at him, smile so wide it almost reaches his ears. “You think?” He asks. “The memories, or home?”

Phil looks at him. The lighthouse is just beyond the rocks now.   
  
“Home,” Phil says after a moment's silence. “Home always comes to you, I think.”   
  
Dan’s face does something wonderful, and he laughs and it floods Phil with a warmth unexplainable.   
  
“I sure hope so,” he tells Phil and Phil finds himself laughing back.   
  
“My hospitality not good enough for you now?” He jabs at him, struggling to keep himself from the smile tugging at his lips. They reach the lighthouse when Dan turns around squinting into the distance before looking back at Phil with thinned lips and a cock of his head that resembles something wonderfully stupid.   
  
“You did buy me a terribly awful boat,” he says with a click of his tongue.   
  
Phil just opens the door and shoves him in with a tut, Dan happily goes as he laughs. 

*   
  
Things ease up between the pair of them in the next few days.   
  
Phil explains how the lighthouse works and in return Dan tries to give him some knowledge about fishing, though neither Dan will go to the top deck and Phil is reluctant to go back out on the boat.   
  
Not that he can anyways. A full day Dan spends working outside, the boat a little closer this time, and as Phil makes lemonade he watches from the kitchen window.   
  
The sun is hot today, the air thick and unmoving, stifling the beach like a sun trap, and Dan ends up working on the beach, shirt discarded on the sand where it comes and goes in the tide.   
  
He comes back in after an hour or so, throat dry and knee’s red from the sand, fingers blistered.  


“The nets are no good either,” he tells Phil, avoiding his eyes once again as he picks up his drink, guzzling it down rather sloppily.

When he sets down his drink, Phil just looks at him, a brow quirked and his lips tug at a smile.

“If that’s your way of wanting me to buy you some new ones, you’ll have to be nicer than that.”

Dan’s already red, sweaty face somehow goes a little redder.

“Oh, he splutters. “Oh, no. No, I can fix them,” he says in a breath. “I might need a hand though.  
  
” Phil picks up the jug of lemonade and refills his cup for him, not caring if a drop spills over the rim, catching on his finger. 

“I can help,” Phil tells him as he adds more ice to the jug, eyes flickering back up to Dan. “Can’t say I’ll be  _ much _ help though.”   
  
Dan’s face breaks back into a relaxed smile, bringing the cup to his lips when he speaks,   
  
“Better than nothing though, hm?”  


Phil smiles as he drinks his own drink.

*

Days pass and Dan continues to work on the boat. The summer weather holds up, startling well for British weather, but neither of them complain, not when the pair of them spend their days on the beach, working away at the boat that Dan’s starting to get antsy about, clearly wanting to get in the water already.   
  
Phil’s managed to fix the nets, remembering old tricks his mother had when she’d repair the holes in his trousers from days spent playing on the yard, tripping over his wellies.

The boat has been painted now and all they have to do is wait for it to dry, taking them into the night and next morning where Dan’ll be up early to start his day.    
  
For now though, the pair of them sat on the sand, enjoying the stillness of the moment as the waves roll lazily up the shore and back again.

Dan’s stretched out, his shorts rolled up and his shirt is once again discarded on a nearby rock, sprawled out as he closes his eyes and soaks up the sun that sizzles his slightly less pale than Phil’s skin.

Phil has to tear his eyes away from his body; the broadness of his shoulders and the wide stature of his chest makes him look bigger and stronger, and Phil swallows thickly like he’d taken a mouthful of sand as he stops staring at a half sleeping, half naked Dan, and instead squints his eyes as he looks out towards the sea where the sun sprinkles it’s bright, twinkling light across the water as it shimmers with each wave, running back and forth.

The pair remain silent, unspeaking for the longest time as Phil digs his fingers into the sand, grabbing handfuls before he lets it run past his fingers, feeling oddly relaxing.

A cloud passes by in the sky and Phil follows it as it floats above them, gliding lazily when Phil lets a huff of laughter escape his nostrils.

"Do you ever think about clouds?” He finds himself asking and for a moment when Dan doesn’t respond, he wonders if he really has fallen asleep.   
  
But Dan cracks an eye open, bringing a hand up to his forehead to shield himself from the burning sun on his face, looking at Phil with a wonky grin.   
  
“What?” he asks, laughing slightly with a slight shake of his head and Phil squirms in his seat.

“I mean… they’re odd, aren’t they? Clouds?”   
  
Dan's smile grows only wider. “In what way?”   
  
Phil grabs another handful of sand and lets it slip from his grip again. “I mean, they’re just in the sky, floating around. They’re just there. How far do you think they go? What do they see? Where have they been, do you think?”   
  
Dan is silent for a second, and then he laughs, and it sounds like nothing else Phil has heard before.   
  
Dan thinks his head back down into the sand, arms flopping by his sides as he closes his eyes again, his smile not yet faltering.

“You’re strange, aren’t you?” He says, voice impossibly soft, though Phil still feels his stomach knot just a little bit when he gives an awkward laugh.   
  
“My family always said I was just… creative.”   
  
Dan looks at him again.    
  
“You write?” He asks.   
  
Phil blinks at him.   
  
“I only ask because of your typewriter. Though, you never seem to be using it.”   
  
Phil gives an easy laugh. “I like to collect dust,” he tells him. “Metaphorically and physically.”   
  
Dan closes his eyes again with a laugh.    
  
Silence falls between them again, and Phil’s brain is bouncing around in his head a little bit, and he can’t help himself from talking again, mouth already spilling the words before he has a chance to stop.   
  
“I used to,” he blurts out. “Write, I mean. Not long ago.”   
  
Dan opens his eyes, and this time he sits up, little bits of sand stick to his tacky skin, though some crumble away from him like a mini avalanche.   
  
“Yeah?” Dan says with a soft smile, “what did you write?”   
  
Phil feels his heart hammer against his chest as he thinks back to the words he once had printed across his papers, the ideas and the stories he once created and imagined and how it had all came to nothing in the end.   
  
He looks away from Dan and down at the sand.    
  
“Just… stories.” he says in a small voice.   
  
He can hear Dan give a raspy hum. “I like stories,” he tells him.   
  
Phil looks at him again. “What kind of stories?” He asks.   
  
Dan traces a finger through the sand beneath him and smiles. “The good ones,” he tells him. “Did you write good stories?”   
  
Phil feels his chest squeeze tight, but not in a bad way this time. It feels weird and comforting and safe. It feels safe.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, I wrote good stories. At least, I thought they were good.”   
  
Dan smiles deeply at him. “Any story is good if you think it’s good.”   
  
Phil huffs a laugh and looks down back at the sand where Dan’s line in the sand runs in swirls and circles near to where Phil’s little pile sits. He looks at Dan again,   
  
“Then yeah,” he tells him. “They were good stories.”   
  
Dan beams at him before laying back down on the sand, eyes closed and smile not once slipping.

*

Later that evening when the sun has sunk below the horizon, turning the once sparkling blue water into something more dark and dangerous looking, the sky turning from a reflection of azule to a swirl of blue and oranges as the last of the light attempts to make itself known.

The lighthouse light swirls around and around, reflecting off the water and illuminating the rocks with every time it passes back around.

After their dinner, tonight a salad and tomorrow hopefully fish after Dan is done on the boat, Phil washes the two dishes as Dan takes a bath, keeping to the routine they’ve both fallen into; Dan takes a bath whilst Phil does the dishes, and then the next day, Dan’ll do the dishes whilst Phil gets to have a bath, though Phil’s already willing to let Dan have a day off tomorrow if he somehow manages to catch them dinner.   
  
He’s smiling to himself, the idea of Dan being out all day and coming home with hauls of food for them both, coming up the beach where Phil will watch him from the kitchen window, laughing at the sight of him, and Phil tries to shake the image from his head, but it’s too late - already ingrained there like it’s a memory passed, he can’t help but smile.

He thinks back to their conversation on the beach earlier, thinking about the typewriter and the stacks of papers that make up a story, stashed away here where Dan can’t see them.   
  
He thinks about how Dan said he likes stories and for a moment his heart gives a happy little jolt in his chest before he thinks about what Dan would think of the stories he writes, or the stories he reads.

The book in his satchel with sand between the pages and the story of a man loving another man.

The kind of story Phil likes, and the kind of story he too writes. He thinks about whether Dan would like his stories if he knew what they really were.   
  
The plate in his grip almost slips into the bottom of the sink as his mind starts to drift away from him, but the bathroom door unlocks and the sound of padding feet behind him grounds him as he listens to the new familiar of Dan getting ready for sleep, setting up the blankets and pillows on the sofa.

Phil finishes up the dishes, leaving them to dry, fingers pruned and wrinkled when he looks across the room to Dan, their eyes meeting.

“I have books,” Phil tells him, voice straining a little, hoping to keep it steady. “You can read them, if you like.”   
  
Dan slips under the blanket, his curls still damp and his skin looks so… soft, Phil thinks, like it’d be like velvet under his touch.   
  
“That’d be nice,” Dan whispers tiredly, smile lopsided on his face. “Maybe I’ll take one out on the boat tomorrow.”   
  
Phil nods, lips stretching thin when he says,   
  
“Of course.” Then, “Get some rest then. You’ll have a long day tomorrow.”   
  
Dan looks at him, and for a moment, it feels like there’s more to say between them, but neither of them say anything else, and Dan rolls over, burying his head in the borrowed pillow.   
  
And with that, Phil returns to the bathroom to get himself ready for bed, the trail of Dan’s wet footprints on the floor remain still, part of the house, part of the home and in a way, part of Phil now too.   



	4. Chapter 4

Dan’s first day out on the water is an early one.   
  
The alarm clock rings off, and instead of just Phil getting up this time, Dan is too, pulling on his trousers, rolling up his sleeves as Phil moves around him sluggishly. 

He’d had a dream last night, moreso a nightmare, that Dan was to go out on the boat, only for the bottom of it falling out, and Dan falling through right into the water, sucking him down, further and further out of Phil’s reach.   
  
They have eggs for breakfast and as he’s chewing his food, Phil wonders if maybe he should mention his nightmare, but he thinks against it, swallowing down his meal, and Dan’s already up dusting the imaginary crumbs off his legs and heading out with a wave, the door shuts behind him before Phil can even tell him: good luck.

*

Phil watches the water from his kitchen window, worry somehow swirling in his gut like an impending storm despite the calm weather outside.

Dan’s boat becomes nothing more than a small dot a little way out, Dan’s figure blurs in with the background of the world, Phil unable to make out what he’s doing, so he simply decides to distract himself.   
  
Pulling on his shoes, he’s still battling the inside thoughts of whether he should leave or not, the same image of Dan’s limp body bobbing in the water, and he’s shaking it off as he leaves the house and makes his way into the small town.

He walks, he’s not sure for how long, his head is bubbling up with various thoughts all at a million miles per hour. He’s thinking mostly about Dan, and how bad Dan is for him.   
  
He’s thinking about his bare chest and the broadness of his shoulders and how cold his body was when he pulled it from the water that one night. He’s thinking, just as he passes the few people mingling about the semi busy town, how strange it would seem to everyone here that he was living with a strange man, not from around here. How strange it would seem indeed.   
  
But Dan feels like less than a stranger now. Not quite a friend. Not an employee. Not really any of those things.    
  
A crease deepens between his brows as he thinks, taking wide strides as he lets his legs take him wherever they desire as his brain continues to whirl around like a hurricane of thoughts.   
  
He ends up standing outside the bookstore, stopping in front of the door as a mother and her daughter come bustling out, both clutching books to their chests with a look of delight, and somehow the idea of that seems to ease some of Phil’s messiness inside his brain, and he takes a step inside. 

During his six months here, he’d most certainly been sure to explore this tiny little store and many a time had he wondered the aisles, pacing up and down, tracing his fingers across different covers and flipping each book over to scan over the words pressed into the back page, wondering if they’re enough to entice him into buying to take home and read.   
  
But somehow, Phil had felt like nothing really reached out to him.

He had more than enough books at home; books he was yet to indulge in and books he could easily read again, falling into a world he once loved before… but today he wasn’t here for himself.   
  
He wanted to get Dan something. He’s not sure what though, he doesn’t even know what kind of stories Dan likes, other than the very vague description of “good ones.”

Phil walks up and down, picking up a book only to set it back down again, a squirming feeling in his gut the longer he continues to be indecisive. Maybe he doesn’t have to pick something Dan will like, he muses. Maybe it simply has to be “good.”

He’s still making a slow pace up and down along the rows of books when he suddenly stops, and he reaches out quickly to snatch up the book that had caught his attention so quickly.   
  
The front of the book reads:

_ Gift From The Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh _

Phil flattens his palm across the hardback cover, his lips quirk into a smile. There’s a little tagline running across the bottom in small print that Phil has to squint to make out,

_ “The answer to the conflicts in our lives.” _

And maybe it’s a little on the nose and maybe he’ll bring it home and Dan won't care for it, and it’ll simply rest on Phil's bookshelf collecting dust like his typewriter with the fear of not understanding. Or maybe Dan will laugh and cherish it and stay up at night under the moonlight to read it.   
  
But Phil takes it to the counter, pulling his money from his trouser pockets, his heart races against his chest as he exchanges the money for the book, and suddenly, he’s bought himself a gift for Dan.   
  
*   
  
By the time Phil gets back home, it looks like the boat is coming back towards the shore.   
  
Phil shoves the book under his pillow, fills the kettle, chews on his nails (a terrible habit) and then, in the quietness of the afternoon, the door swings open and there’s a loud laugh carrying through towards him, making him spin back around.   
  
Dan’s stood there, his cheeks are red and flushed looking, his hair looks windswept and salty, and he’s got a grin bright enough to power a city on the moon plastered right across his face.   
  
Phil looks at him. “You did it?” He asks.   
  
Dan swallows, nods and laughs again. ‘We’ve got fish for dinner. And bloody good ones!”

And with that, he disappears again, skipping away with a hoot as Phil smiles to himself, thinking about the book, and Dan again.   
  
*   
  
And Dan was right, he thinks as he cuts into his dinner, the fish are bloody good ones.   
  
Dan seems to agree with his own statement as well as Phil’s internal thoughts as he too cuts into his dinner, letting a groan of satisfaction rumble from deep within him, uncaring of the look Phil shoots at him.    
  
“Mmmh,” Dan says, eyes shut and head tipping back, a tad dramatic, Phil thinks to himself. “This really is the best bloody fish.”   
  
Phil laughs, looking down at his plate, his fork jabs into the last of his dinner when he can feel Dan looking at him, his eyes practically burning holes into the side of his head.   
  
There’s the soft clatter of his knife and fork against his plate before he hears the sound of Dan clearing his throat.   
  
“You know, I could always teach you how to fish,” he tells him, and Phil has to look at him then. “That way you could just get rid of me,” he says with a half smile. “The boat is yours after all.”   
  
Phil lays his fork down too and shakes his head. “Why would I want to do that?” He asks, voice a tad too genuine for his liking, feeling far too vulnerable.   
  
And Dan shrugs, looking away this time at his empty dinner plate, no fish looking up at him.    
  
“You don’t know me,” he says honestly. 

Phil stares and Dan, until Dan must too feel his eyes burning holes as he looks up to meet his gaze.   
  
“We can get to know each other,” Phil says gently.   
  
Dan smiles, eyes crinkling and under the dampening light, he looks like he’s glowing, like a flickering bonfire.   
  
“I don’t even know me,” Dan says, leaning forward across the table. “How will you?”   
  
Phil swallows thickly, and he’s thinking about the book and suddenly like his legs are a creature of their own with a mind unattached from his, he’s standing and walking towards his bed, pulling the book out from under his pillow and walking back to Dan with his heart jackhammering against his chest with each step.

He holds it out towards Dan, who blinks at it, then gives Phil a questionable look.   
  
“What’s this?” He asks, looking almost hesitant about taking it, but Phil just shoves it further under his nose.   
  
“A gift,” Phil says bluntly, then lets out all the tension in his body by exhaling. “I was at the bookstore today and didn’t know what kind of book you liked. And this looked like a good one.”   
  
Dan just looks up at him, eyes round and blinking before looking back at the book. He reaches up, taking it gingerly where his fingers brush over the cover like it’s treasure discovered at the bottom of the ocean.   
  
When he finally speaks again, his voice is raspy, and Phil thinks maybe it's the edge of almost tears.   
  
“For me?” He asks, looking at Phil again, eyes blurry with tears.   
  
But Phil doesn’t care. He just smiles warmly at him.   
  
“If you want it,” he shrugs, nodding towards the book. “I just… I thought it was funny, y’know, because-”   
  
He’s cut off by Dan’s sharpy, watery laugh as he nods, his dimples deep in each cheek, a look of absolute delight on his face.

“Thank you,” Dan croaks, his head down away from Phil still, fingers still roam the front of the book. “Really.”   
  
He sniffs and looks back up at Phil, eyes glistening under the light, and Phil feels a tug at his chest.   
  
“Until you figure out what it is you like, you can start with this,” Phil tells him. “And maybe you’d like to visit the bookstore sometime after?”   
  
Dan grins impossibly harder, wider, brighter. “I’d love that,” he whispers.   
  


*   
  
Dan helps with dishes, insisting that it’s his turn, but Phil fights him about it, failing to push him from the kitchen where eventually they wash up together.    
  
There’s enough fish to last them the whole week, and so Dan talks about maybe taking the boat out tomorrow evening for a small trip, no fishing involved, and for a weird moment, it feels like he’s perhaps suggesting Phil comes along with him.   
  
But nothing else is said as they work side by side together, and when Dan argues the point about him drying, Phil is reluctant to go and get ready for bed, the lighthouse all taken care of already, and he gets dressed to the sound of Dan’s cheery whistling.

He’s crawling into bed when Dan gets ready for bed, walking past where he lays when he tells him,   
  
“You can, by the way. If you want.”   
  
Phil pulls the covers up to his chin. “Can what?” he asks dumbly.   
  
“Come with me,” Dan tells him. “On the boat tomorrow?”   
  
Phil feels exposed, laying here in bed whilst Dan looks at him, and he squirms, with just a little bit of excitement.   
  
“I’ll get seasick,” Phil says bluntly and Dan scoffs a laugh.  


“Plenty of ocean to be sick in,” he smirks and Phil grunts at the thought, already feeling slightly queasy.   
  
“It’d be nice,” Dan eventually says, his voice gentle and small sounding. “Nice to have someone on the boat with me.”   
  
Phil was already going to say yes.   
  
“Okay,” he nods. “But don’t get mad if I do sick on you,” he warns him and Dan laughs as he heads back to his sofa, his head shaking.   
  
“Fish guts are far worse than sick,” he yawns, crawling under his blanket and Phil makes a noise of disgust.    
  
“Don’t,” Phil warns him, holding his tummy. “Really, honestly, don’t.”   
  
Phil closes his eyes, willing himself to an easy sleep to the sounds of Dan’s soft chuckling.   
  
*   
  
Another early alarm wakes them both in the morning, and once Phil has sorted the lighthouse out, braving himself another few moments on the deck to feel the morning wind on his face, he comes back downstairs with a question sat on his tongue.   
  
“Do you want to head out for breakfast?” Phil asks as Dan’s pouring himself a glass of orange, pausing, and then smiling.   
  
“Sure.”   
  
*   
  
They’re back at the same cafe Phil had taken Dan the morning after the night he’d found him in the water, and when he pushes the door open, he’s greeted by a cheery looking Ms JoJo.   
  
“Darling!” She calls out to him, pulling the notebook out of her apron, ushering them down to a booth, smile wide and teeth dazzling.   
  
“Morning Ms JoJo,” Phil nods and Dan does the same with a polite smile. “How’re you?”   
  
The waitress grins, ear to ear like her face might split in half, pulling the pencil away from where it’s tucked behind her ear.   
  
“Just fine, darling, just fine,” she tells him and then she’s looking at Dan. “And I see you’ve brought along your buddy here again!”   
  
Dan’s face goes a slight pink as he gives her a small  _ hello,  _ looking to Phil for help.   
  
“Well, Dan’s helping me out with something,” Phil tells her with ease. “I’m treating him to breakfast.”   
  
Dan’s face freezes for a moment, but Ms JoJo lets out a howl of laughter and grins at the both, eyes squinted so small they’re almost nonexistent.   
  
They order the same as last time and fall into a small silence once Ms JoJo trots off to go get their food ready.   
  
Phil watches Dan from across the table. “You okay?” Phil asks.   
  
Dan’s head wrenches up to look at him and he smiles, almost too quickly.   
  
“Oh,” he says like he’s been caught off guard. “Yes, yeah I’m fine.”   
  
Phil wants to say something else, but Ms JoJo comes back with their coffee and Dan’s guzzling his down with a slurp and all Phil can do is watch in curiosity as he sips at his own drink.   
  
Their food arrives and they eat in silence. A few people filter in and out of the cafe, nobody paying them any notice as they make their own orders, being fussed over by an enthusiastic Ms Jojo all the more.   
  


Phil smiles at Dan, and Dan smiles something small back.   
  
*   
  
On their way home, Phil can’t help but speak, his brain running like a wheel, unstoppable under the force of the thoughts that roll around there. He looks at Dan, walking side by side with his hands shoved into his pockets, head down and focused on the ground they tread beneath them.   
  
Phil sucks in a sharp breath. “Why’re you so quiet?” He asks, voice feeling too loud for his mouth.   
  
Dan looks up sharply, blinking. “What?” 

Phil kicks the road with his shoe. “You were quiet at breakfast,” he says, a little less stinging. “Are you sure you’re alright?”   
  
It’s then that Dan lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, looking back at the ground again as they continue to walk.   
  
“I just feel like sometimes it’s you doing everything for me,” he tells him. “I can’t afford to buy you breakfast,” he says with an even heavier sigh. “The book, the boat, the food, the sofa…” his voice trails off before he looks at Phil rather gingerly.    
  
The closer the get to the house, the more Phil can hear the soft lulling of the waves, and it feels somewhat comforting.

“Dan,” he says sternly, stopping in his tracks to get him to look at him. 

“I don’t mind,” he says, tipping his head forward to make sure he’s coming across as serious as possible. “You’re a good guy, you got hurt and I…” he inhales sharply before swallowing thickly, clearing his throat as his next few words sit heavy on his tongue.

”And I… I like the company,” he mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets and walking away rather briskly, Dan almost having to break into a slight jog to suddenly keep up with him.

“And that’s it?” Dan asks curiously. “The  _ company?” _

Phil looks at him, seeing the teasing smile Dan’s trying so desperately to hide. 

Phil clicks his tongue, shaking his head as they start to walk side by side again. 

“I moved here six months ago,” he starts. “I came from up north, near Manchester,” he adds, looking at Dan who gives him a strong nod of understanding, signalling for him to carry on.

“My parents had a farm so I was used to, y’know, the green, muddy fields and trousers tucked into my boots when my dad would make me go muck out the pig pen, the kind of thing he did to make a man, I guess.”   
  
Dan hums. “And are you?”   
  
Phil’s eyes flicker over his face. “What?” He asks quietly. “A man?”   
  
Dan hums again and Phil chews the inside of his cheek before huffing.   
  
“I never did enjoy it,” he tells him truthfully. “I wasn’t a hands on guy. I think I had the idea that if I couldn’t be like him or my brother, I would have let him down.”   
  
Dan looks up towards where the lighthouse is now in view the closer they get, looking around to beam at Phil.   
  
“You seem to be doing okay for yourself though, hm?”   
  
Phil gives a half hearted shrug. “Perhaps.”   
  
There’s a beat of silence between them when Dan speaks again.   
  
“Better than me,” he says half jokingly, half real. ‘All I’ve got is me. Not even all of me, I guess. I lost most of it.”   
  
Phil looks at him, the wind breezes past them, his curls bounce over his forehead with each step, and when he purses his lips, his dimples are deep. 

Phil takes a breath, the sea air fresh in his lungs.   
  
“You’ve got me, too,” he tells him, voice so quiet it’s almost lost to the wind. 

Dan looks at him, face fresh and rosy like the air had kissed his skin and he smiles, ear to ear, eyes becoming small when he lets out a warm chuckle.   
  
“Yeah,” he nods. “I guess I do, don’t I?”   
  
*   
  
By the time Dan’s getting the boat ready for their afternoon ride out, he has a weird feeling fluttering around in his stomach, not quite nervousness and not really sea sickness he knows he’s going to be rolling around in bed with after today.   
  
He’s packing away both their sandwiches when Dan comes through the door, hair pushed up off his face, smiling.   
  
“Ready?” He asks him, voice clearly excited, and Phil feels like his stomach could take off at any moment when he nods.   
  
“Ready.”   
  
They leave together, Dan walking in longer strides across the beach that has Phil almost struggling to keep up with his long legs that have about an inch on his own, nearly tripping in the sand in the progress.

They reach the boat where Dan turns, spinning on his heel to face him with a grin.   
  
“After you,” he gestures to the boat that’s bobbing up and down in the shallow parts of the water and Phil grimaces as he holds his satchel up to his chest, tiptoeing through wet sand. He realises once he’s at the side of the boat he has no clue how to actually get on board.   
  
He’s sort of just staring at the side of the boat like it’ll roll down a set of stairs, or maybe he himself will sprout wings and float above it and gently come back down.   
  
But whilst he’s just standing there dumbly thinking about stairs and wings, Dan’s coming up beside him with a chuckle when he somehow manages to lug himself up on the boat, not once wobbling under its steady rocking rhythm. He turns to look down at Phil, a grin still plastered on his face when he holds a hand out towards him.   
  
Phil stares at his outstretched arm, and then back at Dan before looking at his hand again and quickly taking it, not having much time to think about how well their hands fit together, Dan’s hand so warm in his, when he’s being yanked upwards, only just having enough time to draw his legs up to stop them smacking into the wooden side of the boat as he tumbles onto the deck, stumbling and staggering over Dan who seems to be finding all so very amusing.   
  
“Shall we get going?” He asks, a glint of excitement in his eyes that makes Phil smile a little bit as he takes a seat, fingers grip around the almost rotted wood of the boat until his knuckles grow white, giving Dan a weak nod, and with that, they’re off.   
  
Phil watches as the lighthouse and the beach and the house grow smaller and smaller the further and further they go.   
  
The waves are choppy beneath them and the smell of hot salty water causes his stomach to do a little flip, but he focuses on the horizon, his body swaying and moving unstopping, and it eases the feeling like his brain is quite literally floating around in a jar of hot water.   
  
Dan is silent as he takes them further and further out, the wind harsh against his face as his curls brush away from his eyes, squinting slightly as the afternoon sun is hot on their faces.

The sound of the boat and the waves beneath them is somewhat therapeutic, and then, after what feels like no time at all, Phil can no longer see the shore. His heart grips tight in his chest as he looks around him, no sign of life anywhere… just blue.   
  
“Relax,” Dan tells him, the sound of his feet moving sounds heavy and hollow as the boat rocks lazily with each rolling wave. “The shore isn’t too far away. It’s calmer out here anyway, less choppiness.”   
  
Phil swallows thickly and nods, taking his word for it. Dan looks at him, and grins.   
  
“You hate the ocean, don’t you?”   
  
Phil peers over the side at the water. It’s so deep he can’t see the bottom anymore.   
  
“It’s unpredictable,” he tells him, looking back up at where Dan is leant against the side, arms crossed across his chest. 

“You could say that about anything though,” Dan tries and Phil tuts with a roll of his eyes. You can’t guarantee waking up every morning, can you?”   
  
“Yes but I won’t get eaten by a shark whilst asleep in my bed, will I?” He jabs lightly.   
  
Dan laughs, clearly pleased with Phil’s reaction.    
  
“Okay,” he nods, waving a hand. “Fair enough.”

Phil sucks in a breath through his nose as he relaxes himself a little, the boat creaking under him slightly.   
  
“What about you?” Phil asks, causing Dan to look back up at him. “What are your fears?”   
  
Dan balks, giving a short bark of laughter. “It’s a bit existential that, isn’t it?”   
  
Phil swallows. “Not necessarily. Fear can be stupid at times.”   
  
Dan snorts. “Oh yeah?” He challenges him, “What’s a fear of yours that happens to be stupid?”   
  
Phil doesn’t miss a beat when he tells him,   
  
“Horses.”   
  
Dan laughs, his voice carrying out across the ocean with enthusiasm.   
  
“Horses?!” He exclaims and Phil nods seriously.

“The farm,” he begins to explain. “I had to go to the barn in the dark and get something, expect my git of a brother thought it’d be funny to lock me in, and in the dark, horses are… well, they’re horrifying. Big long faces and giant black bulbous eyes.” He gives a sharp shudder at the memory.   
  
Dan holds a hand over his mouth as if to be polite, but Phil can tell he’s laughing a bit. In fact, it makes Phil laugh too.   
  
“It’s not funny,” Phil says, unable to stop himself from smiling and Dan drops his hand to let out another laugh.   
  
“It is,” he argues, “just a bit.”   
  
Phil huffs and jerks his head at Dan impatiently. “So what about you?” He presses on. “What is your stupid fear?”   
  
Dan is silent for a bit, almost like he has an idea on his mind that he’s debating whether sharing, but he bites his bottom lip with a giddy grin nonetheless.   
  
“Trees.” He tells Phil, almost proudly. “I’m scared of trees.”   
  
“Trees?” Phil asks, leaning forward slightly. “Trees?”   
  
“In the dark,” Dan adds quickly. “Oh, and the dark. I, uh. I don’t like the dark at all.”   
  
Phil sits back a little, feeling far more relaxed now. “Huh,” he scoffs as he looks at Dan, eyes flickering over his chilled form. “So as long as you’re away from any forests at night you’d happily bob up and down in shark infested waters?” He teases and Dan chuckles.

“When you put it like that,” he shrugs. “And these aren’t shark infested waters. Even if they were, the sharks didn’t infest them. This is their home.”   
  
He leans over and dips a finger into the water and for a split second Phil has a horrible image of a giant twelve foot monstrous shark coming up to clamp it’s jaws down over his arm, yanking him down as it submerged itself once again.   
  
But of course, that doesn’t happen, and Dan easily retreats his whole arm back where he wipes his wet finger onto his trouser leg.    
  
“You’re right,” Phil croaks. “I never really thought of it like that.”   
  
Dan smiles warmly. “It’s the only home they’ve got,” he says softly. “Albeit, it’s bloody gigantic.’   
  
Phil looks at the rippling water below them. “Do you think they ever want to belong somewhere else?” He asks, not quite looking at Dan yet.   
  
There’s a beat of silence, then,   
  
“Maybe.”   
  
Phil swallows dryly, and with enough bravery to only last him a few seconds, he reaches over and dips his fingers into the water where it’s cool. No shark bites his hand off, nor does he get dragged to the murky depths below.    
  
He pulls his hand away and looks at Dan who’s giving him a bemused smile.   
  
“So tomorrow we’ll just have to get you to ride a horse and we’re done, hm?”   
  
Phil snorts a laugh, wiping his hand on his sleeve. “Not likely,” he says dryly. “There’s more than just water and horses.”   
  
Dan tilts his head to look at him. “Yeah?” he asks curiously. “Like what?”   
  
Phil looks at him quickly before looking away.   
  
“Committing,” Phil says before he has a chance to back out. “That one is probably a less stupid,” he says nonchantly before quickly doubling back. “Or, well, maybe more stupid. Depends what way you look at it from.”   
  
Dan narrows his eyes at him. “What way do you look at it from?”   
  
Phil looks at him and this time he doesn’t look away.   
  
“Writing,” he tells him, voice feeling small. “Is that a stupid fear?”   
  
Dan gives a small puff of laughter. “Depends,” he shrugs.   
  
“On what?” Phil asks.   
  
Dan eye’s eyes flicker across his face, the boat continues to bob along.   
  
“Depends on if you think it’s worth getting over.”   
  
Phil says nothing.   
  
“So is it?” He asks and Phil opens his mouth, much like a fish, but closes it again.   
  
He thinks; thinks about the book in his satchel, thinks about the ideas he’s had for so long, the ones he’s desperate to write, the ideas and the stories about that one thing. That one gloriously delicious thing he wants so bad, but cannot ever have.

Out of reach like plunging his hand into the deepest of oceans for a handful of sand.   
  
He inhales.   
  
“Yes,” he finds himself saying. “It is.”


	5. Chapter 5

Phil spends the rest of the afternoon with his head tipped back as he lets his face prickle with the hot, summer heat of the sun beating down on him, letting the boat rock and sway gently beneath him, slowly starting to be less nauseating and a little more therapeutic as he feels himself start to drift off into another land, far away from where he sits on the boat, listening to the sound of rippling water and the way Dan flips the pages in his book, paper moving between his fingers.   
  
He almost does fall asleep, but the boat gives a sharp jerk and he’s sitting up suddenly, only now realising how pinched his face feels from the sun.   
  
Dan’s eyes flicker from his book to Phil, and back at his book again.   
  
“You’re a bit red,” he tells him and Phil touches at his cheek, only to hiss at the feeling of his slightly raw skin, and he can only imagine how he looks right now, fully aware of how badly he can burn under the sun due to his own negligence.   
  
“I know,” Phil says sadly, reaching over the side to dip his fingers in the water; it’s tempting to scoop it up into his palms and bathe his face in it, if it weren’t for the fact that the salt would most definitely hurt him even more. He pouts and looks at where Dan’s sat on the other end of the boat, clearly already very far along in his book.   
  
He stretches a leg out and his foot gently kicks against Dan’s. “Any good?” He asks when Dan looks up at him with his lips curling into a small smile.   
  
He closes the book on his thumb, keeping his page as he rests it against his thighs. “I mean, it definitely isn’t about fishermen that wash up on strange little beaches with mashed potato for brains,” Dan tells him with a smirk. “But then again, what kind of story would that be about?”   
  
Phil feels his face fall, despite the stretched burnt feeling there. “Oh,” he says softly. “Is it no good?” He’s not even sure why he’s asking, he didn’t even know what it was when he bought it, but all he troubles quickly wash away when Dan lets out a small laugh, a shake of his head as his curls fall over his forehead.   
  
“No,” he disagrees, “it’s good! It’s about lots of things, actually. Love, solitude, youth, peace… the sea, I guess.”   
  
Phil looks at him like he’s waiting for him to say something else. When he doesn’t, Phil opens his mouth,   
  
“And…” his throat feels strangely tight. “Do you like any of those things?”   
  
Dan huffs a short laugh. “What? Love? Solitude?”   
  
Phil just nods awkwardly.   
  
Dan looks at the book in his lap for a moment as if deep in thought before looking back at Phil again.   
  
“Maybe. Not really sure yet.”   
  
Phil takes a breath.   
  
“Do you think you were in love before? Maybe in love now, and you just can’t remember?”   
  
Dan grins, but it’s far from happy. Not quite sad, but not a good kind of grin, instead it’s strained and it doesn’t reach his ears like usual and his dimples remain unshown before he looks at Phil with glossy eyes.   
  
“I think if I were, someone would have come and found me already, don’t you think?”   
  
Phil’s throat grows even tighter when he croaks, “I’m sorry, Dan.”   
  
But Dan waves his hand uncaring and like that, it’s as if all tension and emotion now floats off into the big blue sky above them, and whilst Phil can still feel that heaviness on his shoulders a little bit as Dan stands up and turns to face the water stretched out around them, he wonders if maybe it’s gone from Dan too for now.   
  
“I thought maybe I would have liked solitude,” Dan speaks after a while, voice quiet and small. “Maybe I did, before,” he adds before pausing again. “But with you…”   
  
He looks around and smiles at Phil.    
  
“I don’t mind you, Phil.”   
  
Phil blinks at him, bobbing up and down where he stands, the blue sky and water seems unread behind him, but he lets out an airy laugh and squints at him.   
  
“You’re not so bad yourself,” he smiles, tipping his head back again, sunburn be damned.   
  
*   
  
When they get off the boat and back to the house, Phil’s sunburn is in fact damned… damned to absolute  _ hell _ to be precise, because now the skin across his nose is starting to peel, and when he looks in the mirror, he looks a right awful and hideous sight.   
  
He’s fussing over his sore, pained skin in the bathroom when he can hear Dan moving outside of the door, footsteps against the floorboard with ease like he belongs in the other room of his house.   
  
He doesn’t however have much time to think about the way Dan walks and how nice it is to hear feet in his house other than his own, because his face moves and he’s hissing and groaning in pain, biting down on his bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood almost as he examines his red, almost blistered skin.   
  
He’s about to curse, scream, maybe cry if his tears weren’t so bloody painful, when the door swings open and of course Dan is stood there, leaning up against the doorframe like he just so happens to have the answer to Phil’s suffering.   
  
“Aloe vera,” Dan announces, holding out a little pot in his much larger hands.   
  
So maybe he does just so happen to have the answer to Phil’s suffering, because after a little while of applying the gel he didn’t even know he had, his skin is feeling far less agitated and so more soothed than he thought possible.   
  
“Better?” Dan asks and Phil looks at him rather guiltily, as if it had been his fault he’d been stupid enough to fall half-asleep under the sun.   
  
“Loads, thank you.”   
  
Dan smiles and turns back around to leave him be, his footsteps are once again soft against his floors, walking around his home like he just… fits, and Phil has to think of a time when his house wasn’t occupied with someone else.   
  
Phil is being delicate about his skin again when he hears a small clicking sound coming from the other room. He ignores it first, thinking maybe it’s just a bird pecking at the window for attention, before it continues and then, it stops.   
  
Wandering out into the main room, Dan is sat snuggly in the corner of the sofa, knees up to his chest as he keeps his head down in his book, and as Phil passes by him, his eyes flicker up and then down again, his mouth is drawn in a straight line as if to hide a smile there.   
  
Phil keeps his eyes trained on him, suspiciously narrowed as if he might just crack under his gaze, but Dan’s good and he says nothing, nose buried deep in the pages of his book and with that Phil turns around with a slight huff, thinking maybe it was his imagination.

But he stops short when he notices the typewriter on the desk, the paper flopped over, slightly over to the side and Phil only has to take a few short steps to reach it, pinching the paper to hold it up to see where the fresh ink is on the page, slightly blurry but still there:

_ ‘Write what you wish to write.’ _

Phil spins around to look at Dan who’s giving him a sheepish look.    
  
“What you said on the boat,” he starts, holding his book to his chest. “You should do it. Get over the fear.”   
  
Phil swallows thickly as he smiles, unaware at the tugging sensation those words cause him deep inside of him.   
  
“I think you’d be good,” Dan tells him with a cock of his brow, “you seem to have good taste.”   
  
He waves his gifted book in the air as if proof.   
  
Phil looks at the typewriter and back at Dan again.

“But what would I write?” He asks him dumbly and Dan gives a short huff of laughter, looking at him like he’s seeing into him, rather than just at him.

“I told you,” he says gently. “Write what you wish to write.”   
  
Phil swallows dry like he’s eaten sand, and forces himself to smile and give a weak laugh.   
  
“Yeah,” he grins, though he’s sure it's more of a grimace than anything. “Good idea, I might just do that.”

*

They have fish for dinner, the last of what Dan had caught, and so he turns in for an early night, slipping under the blankets on the sofa, his book is perched on the other end by his feet, and Phil leaves him undisturbed as he gets ready for bed too, turning the lighthouse light on and coming back downstairs to where his eyes are instantly drawn to the typewriter, Dan’s words from earlier echos around it like some sort of strange, weird ghost.   
  
He shakes the feeling, shedding himself of his day clothes, quickly stepping into his nightwear and going to bed where he hugs the blankets around himself and tries to ignore the thoughts swirling around in his head.

*  
  
When he wakes the next morning, Dan is already gone, leaving him a scribbled note in the world's worst handwriting that he’s gone fishing before sunrise, leaving Phil alone for the first time in a while.   
  
He looks at the sofa where the blankets are folded nicely, the pillow plumped and the book that was sat on the edge just last night is now gone, and with that, Phil feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips.   
  
He has breakfast alone, has a very quick bath, being careful of his sore skin still and once he’s changed, he stands in the room, unsure of what to really do with himself.   
  
His satchel hangs off the end of his bed, and his eyes gaze across it, being careful to ignore the typewriter where Dan’s words still sit, mocking him almost.   
  
He shoves his feet into his shoes, snatches up his satchel and leaves, heading towards the beach.   
  
*   
  
Dan’s boat isn’t in view from where he sits, most likely bobbing up and down someplace where the fishes are waiting, and so Phil sits on the sand, his exposed legs stretch out infront of him as he pulls his book from his bag, a thumb runs over his last bookmarked page, smothering out the crease there as he starts to indulge himself in each word printed across the page.   
  
There’s nothing around him besides the slow rolling of the waves against the shore and the flickering of each page he turns over, reading each sentence and word with intent, speeding up like he’s snowballing down a mountain - the more he reads, the more he wants to write.

He’s not sure how long he’s been sat in the sand (long enough for his left asscheek to start to feel numb) but the sun is starting to hang high in the sky, prickling the skin on the back of his neck where it’s sloped downwards, nose buried in his book.   
  
Dogending the page, he stands up, brushes the sand from his shorts, the sand itchy against his naked skin and looks up out towards the water where he can now see the small dot that is Dan’s (and his) boat.

He holds an arm up, stupidly believing for a moment that Dan would be able to see him, waving before dropping it, his eyesight far too terrible to see if Dan is even waving back, so he watches for a moment, taking in the peacefulness of the world around him, and with that, he happily returns home.   
  
*

Once he gets home he chucks his bag onto his bed, letting it land softly against his quilt as he starts to make two cups of tea, the notion now becoming more familiar than just the one cup, and by the time it’s all ready and he’s bringing his own cup to his lips, the door creaks open and Phil’s looking round to see where Dan’s skipping in, his face bright and cheery.   
  
“Good catch?” Phil asks into his tea and Dan hums, reaching around him like a practiced motion as he takes his own tea and sips at it.   
  
“S’good.” He takes a large gulp. “You sure you don’t want to come back out with me? I could show you how you-”   
  
Phil has to stop him from talking with a waving hand and a deep noise of disgust, leaving Dan looking slightly startled.   
  
“You stick to gutting fish,” Phil tells him, “and I’ll stick to not writing.”   
  
Dan’s lips curl into a small smile before hiding behind his drink.   
  
*   
  
“So, what are you going to write?” Dan asks from the other side of the table.   
  
They’re having fish for dinner (again) and as good as an idea it seemed that time ago, Phil prods at his food with his fork, feeling numb to the same flavour over and over again.   
  
He rolls his eyes at Dan who just smirks at him.   
  
“Why are you so persistent?” He asks and Dan shrugs almost innocently.   
  
“Why are you so stubborn?” He teases and Phil snorts a laugh as he pushes his plate away from him, prompting Dan to do the same, clearly also bored of fish.

“I’m not stubborn,” Phil says after some time has passed. “I’m just… undecided, on certain things.”   
  
He feels his face flush a hot pink as he says it, but Dan doesn’t appear to care nor notice as he lets out a sharp laughter that has Phil smiling wildly.   
  
“Right,” he scoffs playfully. “And what things would they be? The fact that you are in fact a rather difficult and mulish?”   
  
He’s smirking like a damned cat when he says it and Phil gasps, earning a cackle from him as Phil scowls at him.   
  
“I am not  _ mulish _ ,” he argues. “I like to take my time with things,” he adds holding his head a little higher, but Dan keeps grinning at him.    
  
“How much time though?” He asks and Phil tuts at him.   
  
“You’re rather impatient for a fisherman, you know that?”   
  
Dan runs his tongue along his teeth and picks at the food stuck there as he shrugs, clearly amused.   
  
“It’s not so much impatience, it’s gaging a reaction.”   
  
Phil laughs. “Ah, I see,” he nods. “You’re just trying to worm under my skin to get me to write out of spite?”   
  
Dan leans back in his chair with an impressed look, crossing his arms over his chest.   
  
“If it worked, would you be so mad at me?”   
  
Phil narrows his eyes at him. “Why do you want me to write so much?”   
  
Dan sits up, tucking his chair under the table, scraping his thumb along the side of the table, eyes following it before he stops and looks at Phil with a thoughtful look.   
  
“I think you’re good,” he tells him honestly, but Phil gives a dry laugh.

“How do you know I’m good?” He asks with a quirk of his brows.   
  
“You have good taste in books,” Dan tells him plainly.   
  
But it’s Phil’s turn to be cocky now, as he mirrors Dan’s stature, crossing his arms too and tilting his head to look at him.   
  
“One book,” Phil shakes his head with a smile. “One book I gave you. And I didn’t even really know what it was about. It hardly counts as a judge of my literature.”   
  
But Dan shakes his head confidently and Phil feels his own facade start to slip a little bit.   
  
“Not that one,” he tells him. “The other one. The one you’re always reading.”   
  
Phil feels his mouth go dry, only the taste of fish sharp in the back of his throat. “What?” He croaks.

Dan smiles at him, oblivious, before standing up, the chair making a loud groan as he watches Dan stride towards his bed, lean over, plucking up the book from where it had been left tangled up in his quilt and Phil feels his heart plummet from inside his chest as Dan turns to face him. His smug look seems to melt from his face.   
  
“What?” Dan asks, holding the book up. “It’s good. I liked it.”   
  
Phil’s throat feels tight. “What?”   
  
Dan looks at the book and then back at Phil, rather gingerly.   
  
“The book. I thought that was what you meant what you wanted to write?”   
  
Phil’s head is too busy thumping with each heavy beat of his heart to even understand what Dan is saying, but apparently his expression speaks enough without him having to actually say words because Dan gives him a small look, dropping his arm back by down his side.   
  
“Queer,” he says the word like it’s easy and Phil is sure his brain might actually explode from his skull from how tight and painful everything feels. “I thought you wanted to write something queer.”   
  
Phil stands up so fast the chair rocks backwards but doesn’t quite crash to the floor like Phil hopes to.   
  
He closes the gap between them with a few long strides and he watches as Dan tenses and his eyes are wide and right now Phil isn’t sure what he’s really going to say or do, not until he’s right up and close to the other man, still clutching his book in his hand looking rather unsure.   
  
Phil’s eyes flicker towards it and then back at Dan.   
  
He reaches between them, takes the book and Dan lets it slip away easily from his grip.   
  
Phil swallows thickly, steadying himself, feeling the sides of the pages cut into his palm from the harsh grip he has on it, it might crumple under his palm.   
  
He wants to be brave right now, he wants to be sure that when he speaks, his voice won't give away the horrible feeling he’s experiencing in his gut, like a rock in his stomach. But he can’t be sure, not whilst he and Dan stand here, nose to nose almost, breathing in each other's sharp, quick breaths before Phil sucks in a deep breath, expanding his chest like he’s bigger and braver than he could ever really be.   
  
“It’s not…  _ queer _ ,” Phil tells him, saying the word like it’s a trigger word, and saying it above a whisper will have him falling through the floor into a hidden dungeon.   
  
But he doesn’t. The word doesn’t send an arrow through his heart, or dogs to appear from anywhere or the world to fall in on him… the word is just a word, and when he says it, Dan is unmoving like it’s just a word.   
  
Dan looks at Phil almost longingly and Phil feels a tight shift deep in his chest.   
  
“I read it,” Dan tells him, voice small. “I know what it’s about.”   
  
Phil blinks at him. “What? When?”   
  
Dan sucks in such a deep breath he takes a small shuffle backwards, bracing himself. “Before,” he tells him. “At home.”   
  
Phil feels the wind get knocked from out of him from just one word. “Home?”

Dan looks away from him, down at the floor like he’s a naughty child about to be told off and right now the last thing Phil wants to do is scream and shout.   
  
“I liked it, Phil, it’s a good book-”   
  
Phil doesn’t care about the book anymore. “I thought you couldn’t remember?” He says, shaking his head. “I thought you couldn’t remember anything?”   
  
Dan gives him a guilty look and the floor might as well give way beneath his feet where he’s standing.   
  
“I didn’t,” Dan says in a pleading voice. “Not at first… but things have been coming back.”   
  
“Like what?” Phil spits and Dan’s chest hiccups like he’s fighting back the urge to cry.   
  
“Small things. Silly things. Phil, it’s things that don’t even matter…”   
  
But Phil’s not hearing his desperate words, and he instead looks down at the book in his hands and shakes his head.    
  
“And now that you remember,” Phil says, jerking his head up to look at him. “Will you be going home?”   
  
The word home holds as much weight as the word queer, heavy on his tongue and sharp like a poison.   
  
Dan looks like he’s been smacked in the face. “What?”   
  
Phil feels defensive and horrible and he wants to take it out on Dan in every way possible.

“Or did you plan on living here on my sofa for the rest of your life?”   
  
Dan looks totally and utterly lost. “Oh,” he chokes, face going a deep red. “Oh, no, no, Phil. Of course not.”   
  
Phil swallows drly, not sure if he really wants to be mean to Dan or whether it’s just a projection of his own feelings he’s taking out on him simply because he’s here… simply because Dan likes the book Phil likes because it’s about something he feels within himself, and if Dan likes it too, does that mean the same thing? And how can he be sure?

“I was even thinking,” Dan starts stuttering, bringing Phil out of his thoughts to look at him, his expression straight faced and unsure looking. “There’s a market on the weekends, right? Well I could sell some of my catch, we could split it, I could pay you back - look, Phil-”   
  
Phil waves him off, he doesn’t want to hurt Dan any more than he possibly has all because he was too scared to admit the book he was reading was gay and he liked it.    
  
“It’s alright,” Phil tells him, voice quiet as he rubs at his eye, feeling tired. “Don’t worry about it.”   
  
Dan just stands there dumbfounded. “I don’t remember everything,” he tells him. “I didn’t mean to lie to you.”   
  
Phil manages to half smile at him. “You didn’t,” he gives a dry laugh but it dies in his throat before it really feels real.   
  
“You’ve been too nice to me,” Dan speaks, voice quiet and far away sounding. “Far too nice.”   
  
“And I’ve been a prick,” Phil says with a heavy sigh.   
  
It gets Dan to laugh a little at least. “Not entirely. Not even a lot, or a little.”   
  
Phil smiles at him, but it still feels tender. “Now who’s being too nice?”   
  
Dan gives a huffed laugh that makes it come out too quickly but he kicks the floor gently with the toe of his shoe and whatever tension that was tight roped between them has started to let loose.

“I better do the dishes,” Dan eventually speaks and Phil looks at him and shakes his head.   
  
“No,” he tells him and for a moment Dan looks panicked like Phil might actually throw him out onto the sand. But Phil smiles softly at him and his expression relaxes. “We’ll do it together, come on.”

*

They do the dishes together, like they usually do every night because screw taking turns - Dan’s fingers don’t prune as easily as Phil’s and Phil is better at drying than Dan is, and it gets it done quicker when they work together even when they’re standing hip to hip in silence, Phil letting Dan’s words from earlier mull around in his brain like a relaxed swarm of bees; nothing is insane right now and nothing is on the defence nor is he ready to attack, but he keeps stealing sideway glances at the man beside him, shoulder to shoulder in height as he wonders what kind of life Dan did live before he washed up on the shore and what kind of person he is now… for better or for worse?

The mug he’s working over with the rag is probably already dry but Phil stands there, rubbing it over until it’s squeaky clean dry, staring into the sink full of bubbles as he thinks about pretty much everything.   
  
It’s a big feat for his brain, really.

He must be thinking loud, because Dan bumps his hip with his and it feels strangely nice.   
  
“You okay?” Dan asks and Phil looks at his face for only a second. Any longer and he’ll be pulled right into those honey coloured eyes and find himself stuck.

He goes back to his overly dry mug and nods. “Fine,” he tells him with a nod, and they fall back into another silence again.   
  
It’s not until they’re both ready for bed, slipping under their blankets, the lighthouse light above them spinning gracefully as the water outside crashes against the rocks. It feels like he’s not on earth anymore. Like it’s his own little planet he’s crash landed here with Dan in tow.   
  
Just Dan and their fishes.

“Phil?” Dan’s voice is small sounding in the darkness.   
  
“Yes?” Phil’s voice is somehow smaller.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” He asks, unsure of himself.   
  
Phil swallows drly. He doesn’t need time to think, he already knows the answer. “No,” he tells him. “Why?” He asks.

There’s a beat of silence. Maybe Dan isn’t sure himself. Maybe words are a lot harder than just writing them. 

“I don’t know,” he eventually says. “For today? For a lot of things.”   
  
Phil chews on the inside of his lip, hearing just the sound of Dan’s breathing from across the room - something he’s so aware of now when he falls asleep at night; the sound of someone else, feeling so close yet so far away from him, just out of reach.   
  
“I’m not mad,” Phil finds himself saying, like his tongue is a runaway train with no clear track. “I’m not mad at you for saying those things today.”   
  
It’s the truth, really. Deep down, Phil isn’t mad. He’s never really mad. He’s just scared.   
  
He hears Dan take a sudden breath. “I liked the book,” he says in an almost whisper, like dipping his toe in uncharted waters, unsure of the reaction. “Have you read all of it yet?”   
  
There’s another stretch of silence as Phil feels heat prickle up the back of his neck, his brain screaming at him to be defensive; the bee’s are angry and Phil’s reaction is to be angry too.   
  
But he doesn’t do that.

He smiles, in the dark, where Dan can’t see, because he feels like maybe it’s not all that bad.   
  
“I like it too,” he croaks. “It’s my favourite book.”   
  
He can hear Dan give a sniff and suddenly, Phil’s eyes feel wet too. 

“There’s just one thing,” Dan tells him and right now Phil wishes he wasn’t staring up at the ceiling but in that honey trap of Dan’s eyes.   
  
“What?” He asks gently.   
  
He feels like he can just hear Dan’s smile in his words.   
  
“I wish it were happier,” Dan whispers. “I wish they were happier.”

Phil’s vision blurs with tears and when he blinks, his cheeks become wet. He gives a sharp sniff and Dan lets out a watery laugh.   
  
“Me too,” he whispers back.   
  
“I wish a lot of stories were happier,” Dan tells him in the dark and Phil clings to his words tightly.

Phil swallows thickly. “I thought you only liked happy stories?” He asks, though he’s sure he knows the response nonetheless.

Dan gives a dry laugh and he can picture his face now as clear as anything from behind closed eyes.   
  
“Not all of them,” he tells him in a soft voice. “Not the real ones.”

Phil feels his chest grow tight and his throat runs dry. He knows exactly what he’s saying and what he’s feeling and it’s true; how the stories Phil likes never seem to be allowed to be happy.   
  
The ones about love and the kind of love he feels himself falling into is never, ever happy, and he wonders if it ever will be.

“You should write it,” Dan says after a while, his voice so bold against the small quietness of the room.   
  
“Write what?” Phil asks dumbly and Dan gives a soft chuckle that once again proves to Phil that he so desperately wishes they weren’t having this conversation in the dark.   
  
His heart is hammering against his chest when he hears him speak again,   
  
“A happy one. One with a good ending.”   
  
Phil chews on his lip. “Can it be?” He asks quietly. “Happy, that is.”   
  
There’s a ruffling of sheets like Dan’s turning over and Phil has a split second of wishful thinking that maybe he’ll leave that sofa and let his feet take him to where he wants to be… but it’s a selfish wish because Dan doesn’t do that, and instead lets out a yawn when he says,   
  
“Of course,” like it’s nothing. “Only you can make it happy if you want it to be.”   



	6. end of part I

Days pass and Dan and Phil find themself dancing around each other in a new kind of way. Things aren’t said but they are. Phil reads his book, eyes catching with Dan’s when he spots him, a smile passed between another bigger smile and for once, things don’t feel so scary to Phil. 

Dan spends the days out on the boat, soaking up the sun where it’s kissed against his skin in a smattering of freckles across his slightly tanned skin. Phil spends his days on the sandy beach, looking out across the glimmering and constantly moving to see if maybe he could spot Dan and his boat (and even though he’s come to the conclusion that he cannot, it doesn’t stop him from spending the day out under the sun reading his book, watching and waiting for the boat to return home.)

And when Phil works his way through a chapter a day, he’s home, glancing towards the window where he watches Dan walk across the shore, and somehow, no matter how many times he watches, it still sends a flurry of butterflies in his stomach, like he’s genuinely sick… sick with whatever feeling it is he’s feeling, but he doesn’t care - he likes it.

He’s washing up a mug Dan had left on the side this morning when the door creaks open and there’s heavy footsteps coming into their home.   
  
“Good day?” Phil asks, not quite feeling brave enough to look up to face him as he scrubs away the mouth marks around the rim of the mug, and Dan comes up to stand beside him, leaning against the cooker as he crosses his arms across his chest in a rather relaxed manner.   
  
“Mmh,” He hums and that’s when Phil looks up to stare at him. His hair is once again windswept with salty curls and his cheeks are rosy and fresh faced looking.   
  
“What?” Phil asks him, eyes flickering across his still face, his stomach starting to tangle in a small knot.

Dan looks at him, smiles with ease and the knot undoes itself.   
  
“Do you wanna get a drink?” He asks. “With me, I mean?”   
  
Phil opens his mouth to speak but Dan beats him to it.   
  
“I’m not saying your cooking is all that awful but you could do with a night off, right?”   
  
Phil snaps his mouth shut, blinks and then finds himself nodding without really thinking much about it.   
  
“Er, sure,” he croaks, almost dropping the mug into the sink. “Now?”   
  
Dan nods confidently. “Why not?”

Phil finds he doesn’t really have an answer for that, and when Dan announces he’s gonna go get ready for them to leave in the next half hour, the butterflies in Phil’s stomach are dancing with glee.   
  
*   
The old pub sounds loud from the outside as both Dan and Phil approach it tenderly; the pub isn’t Phil’s usual scene, usually filled with men that remind him of his brother and father, and women that are loud and flirty, that make his ears blush hot.   
  
But once Dan’s pushed the door open, and they’re both stepping in, the noise explodes ten times the amount as before, and nobody even notices them, looking around like a pair of lost puppies.   
  
“Here,” Dan nudges him with his elbow, catching Phil off guard as he wobbles slightly.   
  
“Go sit down, I’ll grab us a drink.”   
  
Phil barely has time to even open his mouth before Dan’s already striding towards the bar, leaving Phil to look around for a table that isn’t full of men already, or sticky looking.   
  
There’s a little table at the back that Phil settles into, just by the window. He turns his head to look out, the dimming outside world and the lights inside make his reflection clear as she stares into his own, darkened face.   
  
The sound of a glass hitting the table makes him jump nearly out of his skin as he whips around only to see Dan looming over him with a smile etched across his face as he sets down the second drink.   
  
“In your own world were we?” Dan asks smugly as he takes a seat opposite Phil, scooting in closer to the table, the tall pints slosh dangerously close to the rims of the glasses but neither of them take any notice.   
  
“Guess so,” Phil laughs quietly, his own voice seems muffled over the rowdy crowd of the pub behind him.   
  
Dan takes a sip of his beer, pulling away the glass only for there to be a thick, white cloud of froth on his upper lip, but before Phil can point it out to him, he’s already running his tongue over his lip, wiping away with such ease, Phil wonders if Dan is a pub kind of lad.   
  
“I have a plan,” Dan then says, leaning over the table, eyes sparkling rather excitedly. “And it starts with me paying you back for these pints.”   
  
Phil scoffs, rolls his eyes and grabs the bottom end of his glass, twirling it around as his finger slips against the wet condensation, just to give his hands something to do as he thinks about literally anything else other than arguing with Dan about money.   
  
“Dan,” he starts, voice heavy and pointed, “I told you, I don’t—”   
  
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Dan’s already waving his hand around, using the other to bring the glass to his lips, taking a hefty and enthusiastic gulp before setting it down and looking at the man opposite him rather expectantly.   
  
“Listen,” he says sharply. “This is a good plan and it’s gonna benefit us both so… just shut up and listen.”   
  
Phil purses his lips together to stop his stupid grin from growing.   
  
“I wanna sell the fish,” Dan tells him, looking into his glass for a second, then back up at Phil, as if for reassurance. “I was thinking the market? I was talking to the barman up there?”   
  
He looks over Phil’s shoulder and Phil follows, seeing the tall man standing behind the bar with a rag in one hand and a glass in the other.   
  
“He said there’s markets every Wednesday. You said fishing was a lot of competition here, right?”   
  
Phil just nods.   
  
“It’d help me pay you back, and then any extra we get… well… it’s yours obviously.”   
  
Phil snorts. “And why is it mine,  _ obviously _ ?”   
  
Dan’s fingers are dancing around the rim of his glass as he shrugs. “Well, it’s your boat, isn’t it?”   
  
Phil swallows thickly. “Our boat,” he says gently. “And I think that’s actually a brilliant idea.”   
  
Dan looks up at him quickly, his expression brightens. “Yeah?”   
  
Phil lifts his glass from the table, a ring of dampness left behind in the wood. “Yeah,” he agrees with a sharp nod. “You’ll need the money too, hm?”   
He takes a sip of his drink, almost missing the way Dan’s face falls slightly.   
  
“Right,” his voice cracks. “Of course. I’d need the money for when… when I leave… obviously.”   
  
The beer sliding down his neck suddenly tastes bitter and unwelcoming; he’s not sure how all these people guzzle it down almost daily with such ease.   
  
“I’m not trying to rush you,” Phil then blurts out, glass back on the table, against the same damp ring as before. “Don’t think this is me trying to get rid of you.”   
  
Dan’s lips tug into a slight smile. “Are you sure?” He asks.   
  
Phil’s tongue runs over his top lip, feeling for the foam there. Dan’s smile widens.   
  
“I like having you around, remember?” Phil tells him.   
  
He stretches his leg out under the table, and nudges Dan’s foot with his own. Neither of them make attempts to break away.   
  
“So what then?” Dan sits back comfortably in his chair, looking at Phil rather mischievously. “Just a fisherman and a writer living in a lighthouse together,” he suggests. “Nothing weird about that, is there?”   
  
Phil’s heart is pounding so hard against his ribs, it feels like his whole damn  _ body _ is just about ready to break in two.   
  
“Just a fisherman with a little bit of memory loss and a writer who can’t write, living in a lighthouse together,” Phil corrects him, and when Dan laughs, it feels like the most beautiful sound to ever be heard ever.   
  
*   
  
They drink more (with the hypothetical money Dan has from their next big fish sale) and eventually, the pub starts to filter out which means the noise starts to fade, only leaving a faint ringing in Phil’s ears where the phantom voices still echo around his head.   
  
“I’m closing up shop in five,” a gruff voice comes from behind them and Dan ducks his head down, hiding behind their collection of empty glasses as he snorts a laugh.   
  
“Come on,” he says, voice only slurring a tad, “I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.”   
  
Phil’s gone all giggly as Dan stands, announces he’s going to the toilet, and Phil supposes he can be of some help as he starts to gather the glasses, all loudly clanking about when he turns, and almost drops them all in surprise.   
  
It’s the barman, standing right in his path, face pinched into something… angry looking, and Phil feels very small under his watchful gaze.   
  
“You’re the bloke that lives up in the lighthouse, ain't ya?” He asks, taking two glasses from Phil’s grip, and all he can do is meekly nod.    
  
“Philip, is it?” He asks with a jerk of his head.   
  
“Yeah. Phil. Nice pub you have,” his voice only wobbles slightly and the barman sniffs.

“Your friend,” he looks towards the general direction of the toilets. “He’s not from ‘round here, is he?”   
  
Phil’s palms are sweaty and he’s sure all these empty pint glasses are going to be falling from his arms and smashing right on the floor in the space between where they both stand, but the barman doesn’t seem to care.   
  
“He’s uh… he’s my cousin. Just staying over for a bit,” he lies, unsure why the words are even coming out of his mouth at all, but once they start, he can’t seem to stop. “His father was a Lieutenant of a Navy fleet,” Phil says with a strange kind of ease. “Not sure which one, I’ll have to have him remind me…” he clears his throat as the barman stares down at him, unmoving in his stance.   
  
“He uh… he blew a knee out, not long ago. Some… war injury. So uh, Dan- Daniel here, he’s just helping me for a bit. Wanted to make a bob on the fish market on Wednesday, he was telling you about it earlier on, right?”   
  
Phil’s heart is positively thundering in his chest and just as he’s starting to believe that Dan’s gotten himself stuck in the damn toilet, the barman relaxes his stance, and takes another two glasses, Phil’s hands trembling from the strain of having held onto the tightly.   
  
He grunts, and his eyes flicker up and down at Phil. “How long?” He asks.   
  
Phil opens and shuts his mouth like a fish himself. “I’m sorry?”   
  
“How long will he be staying for?”    
  
Phil clears his throat again. “Well. Until his father recovers, presumably.”

It’s then that Dan appears, looking merry and flushed in the face, obviously still giddy from the alcohol. Any lingering effect has been lost on Phil from pure fright.   
  
“Where did you say you were from then, son?” The barman looks at Dan with narrowed eyes and Phil just looks at Dan rather helplessly.   
  
“Phillack,” he says easily. “I’m sure you know what the fishing is like round there,” he adds with an airy laugh, but Phil feels like he’s going to throw up every single beer he’s ever ingested.   
  
The barman looks down at them both, then, shrugs, shakes his head and mutters something under his breath as he walks towards the bar.   
  
“Don’t worry ‘bout cleaning up,” he shouts over his shoulder as Dan goes to grab more glasses, pausing in mid action as he looks at Phil with an unsure gaze.   
  
“Right,” Phil’s voice wavers as he starts to make his way towards the door, Dan in tow. “Night then, uh-” he stops, realising he has no clue who this man even is.   
  
“Mo,” the barman grunts. “See you boys.”   
  
And with that, Phil is giving him a brisk smile and wave as he’s practically tumbling out the door.   
  
When he exhales, he can see his breath lingering in the air for a moment.   
  
“What was all that about?” Dan asks curiously as he looks back at the pub, shoulder brushing up against Phil’s, who subconsciously takes a side step away, but Dan thankfully doesn’t seem to notice at all.   
  
“He was being nosey, that’s all,” Phil sighs. He has nothing to hide. Not really. Unless you count a book about love and a handsome stranger living on your sofa. But it’s nothing to do with Mo. Nothing to do with him at all.   
  
“Well. I know locals probably get a bit prickly about outsiders, huh?” Dan laughs airly and Phil swallows.   
  
“Considering that I’m technically an outsider to them as well? Yeah. Very prickly.”   
  
Dan bumps his shoulder with his and for the first time since the pub, Phil looks up at Dan; his eyes are bright and smile is wonky and his cheeks are a nice shade of pink.   
  
“That just makes them pricks then, doesn’t it?” He laughs, and Phil laughs back.   
  
Then,   
  
“Why did you say Phillack?” He asks curiously as Dan shoves his hands in his pockets.   
  
“It’s what you said before? Remember?”   
  
Phil shakes his head and Dan presses further.   
  
“To the boat man? I guess I just remembered it because it sounded like Phil.”   
  
Phil’s sure Dan’s cheeks get a little pinker. “That’s clever,” he remarks. “I told him you were my cousin,” he then adds, voice a little quieter as Dan looks at him.   
  
“What? Why?”   
  
Phil sighs, long and drawn out as he carefully and experimentally looks at Dan and then back down at his feet again as they walk at a slow, reserved pace.   
  
“He just seemed… weird,” he tells him, looking to see Dan’s reaction, and he’s surprised to see he’s looking at him, carefully, his hair is windswept and he has an air of concentration about him as he listens to Phil’s words.   
  
“Weird?” Dan asks. “How so?”   
  
_ The bad kind of weird _ is what Phil wants to say, but he doesn’t. For what reasons, he doesn’t know himself, so he just shrugs, making a small noise in the back of his throat and when he looks at Dan again, his brows are creased in confusion as he thinks.   
  
“I also told him your dad was in the Navy,” he adds, voice quiet and Dan looks at him, his face breaks into a grin, and a laugh escapes him.   
  
“The Navy?” He splutters and Phil finds himself laughing too.   
  
“I panicked, okay!” He tries to defend himself, voice going shrill, but Dan just laughs harder, his voice being swept away by the wind, sounding like a nighttime melody that only exists between the air and the sea.   
  
“I just…” Phil whispers, pausing as he mulls over his words carefully. “I just don’t want prickly people… being prickly.”   
  
Dan’s smile is soft and warm and Phil feels a tug in his chest that he knows shouldn’t be there when he looks at this man, but for once he doesn’t really care.   
  
“But what if they’re prickly with you?” Dan then asks. They’re nearing the beach now, the wind is whistling and the sea is faraway sounding yet he can still taste the salt on his lips when he licks them, and he has to squint his eyes when his hair flies over his face.   
  
“Well,” he shrugs. “I like being alone for a reason,” he manages a small smile.   
  
For so long he’d grown used to his own company. For so long he’d settled into his own bed, alone with a space beside him that was empty and cold. One cup of tea every day. A dinner eaten over a table for one, and the sounds of empty footsteps following him up and down the stairs to the lighthouse.   
  
But even though Phil was used to being alone, didn’t mean he didn’t yearn for something totally different. The teenagers that kissed in Ms JoJo’s cafe - his father taking his mother out to dance, or his school friends getting married… Phil wanted that, so badly, but he knew that this world was a totally different puzzle that didn’t have room for his oddly shaped piece.    
  
He stuck out, alone and sad, and like the lighthouse, he stood alone in the vast emptiness of nothing, aware of everything else, yet, unable to go.   
  
Dan’s still looking at him, his eyes are sad looking and his mouth is drawn into a small frown and Phil wonders for a split second if Dan knows that feeling.   
  
He wonders if Dan feels like a lone boat out to sea. A tiny fish in a big pond, or something.   
  
“Not completely alone though,” Dan asks, voice barely above a whisper. The town behind them is far away and quiet, like it exists in a totally different world away from them, and Phil swallows thickly.   
  
“No,” Phil nods. “Not completely alone.”   
  
His voice is shaking, and the shakiness grows inside him, right down to the tips of his fingers and down to his toes when Dan leans forward, his breath tickles his lip for a second before their mouths meet and suddenly all the air in Phil’s lungs constrict, and it’s like he’s never breathed before now.   
  
Dan’s lips are soft against him, and they taste like sea air and the beer from earlier, and even though it feels like a million seconds, it’s over as quick as it started as Dan pulls away with a short gasp, surprised in himself as they both stand there, blinking at one another, like they’d finally broken through the water for the first time, and this was the first Phil was really seeing him.   
  
“We ought to get inside,” Dan whispers, voice a little husky, eyes glossy and his cheeks are as pink as ever.   
  
And before Phil can say anything, even reach out and touch cold fingertips against his as some sort of anchor, Dan’s already walking away, kicking up sand behind him, as he makes his way towards the lighthouse.   
  
And of course, after a moment's reflection and complentation, Phil follows. 

*  
  
Once inside, the whole world feels muted; the ocean that’s picking up outside feels a million of miles away, like a wave had picked up the tiny house and carried out to the middle of nowhere where it’s calm and quiet. 

Dan’s got his back to him when he walks through the door, it shuts with a soft  _ click _ and for a moment he swears Dan tenses, before he relaxes again. He’s got his hands in the sink, obviously making his best to busy himself as Phil just stands there dumbly, staring at the way his shoulder blades move under his shirt, and the curve of his spine where his head is ducked down out of sight.

Phil draws in a breath for words yet unsure when Dan turns suddenly, almost making Phil jump from how sharp his movements are. His face is set, his mouth drawn tight. His eyes are dark and narrowed and there’s something so uncertain about him that Phil wishes he could just reach out and touch him.

“I owe you an apology,” Dan croaks, voice cracking on his last word as his eyes flicker up briefly to meet Phil’s gaze, before forcing himself to look back at the floor again where he stands. 

“I… I had too much to drink. My mind is not–  _ I _ am not thinking straight,” he shakes his head, his curls brush over his forehead with each slight movement. “I shouldn’t have…” he looks up, blinking quickly with glossy eyes. 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you like that,” he whispers.

The words bounce around Phil’s head as he continues to stand there, looking at the man before him, wondering how someone so tall and broad can make himself seem so small in his stature.

But Dan  _ kissed  _ him, he finally realised. Dan pressed his lips to his, took his breath away and in return gave him his. Dan had kissed him, and Phil… Phil had liked it.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Dan cuts him off before he has any chance, waving a hand around in gesture.

“And I understand if, if, if this means that you want me out,” he starts, voice wobbling as he verges on the edge of some sort of breakdown. 

“I understand if you want to throw me out right now. You can. You probably should. I’m so sorry, Phil.”

There’s tears rolling down his cheeks now, his chin trembles as he holds in what Phil can only imagine is a painful sob as his chest hiccups and he sniffs, holding his breath as he bottles it all in so tightly, Phil’s just waiting for him to explode.

“I don’t know what came over me,” he shakes his head, more tears come tumbling down his face, rolling past the smattering of freckles that have grown there since his long days in the sun. His bottom lip is cracked and his eyes are going red and puffy and it’s a sight Phil doesn’t think he’ll forget soon.

Phil stands there, silently as Dan furiously wipes away at his face, using the back of his wrist to clear away the underneath of his nose, looking down again, as if hanging his head in shame.

The floor creaks under his weight when Phil takes a small step towards him, closing the almost infinite gap that exists between them, and Dan looks up shyly through long, wet lashes.

“Dan,” he says softly, his own voice sounds foreign to him in his own ears, feeling like he hasn’t spoken in years. 

Dan looks at him, a glistening of hope in his eyes before it fades again, and he wraps his arms around his middle, almost guarding himself from what he’s about to say.

“Dan… I…” it’s like his tongue is suddenly made of tar and his brain is tangled as he can’t figure out the words he wants to say.

His heart is hammering against his chest, like a hummingbird in the summer, a sweat prickles at his skin as he looks at the man before him, remembers the brief taste of his lips on his, then, he steps forward, closing that once infinite gap between them, and Dan looks up sharply as tears still pool in his dark, sparkling eyes, and Phil throws caution to the wind as he takes Dan’s face in between his hands, stares at him for maybe second and a half, and then he kisses him.

It’s long and slow, and he feels Dan exhale through his nose as his whole body relaxes, and the arms holding himself eventually fall away, and a hand rests on his hip, the other on his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze as Phil’s tongue pushes its way into his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip, until his lungs are burning and his brain is torn between kissing Dan to death or coming up for air so he can dive back down again.

Dan must be feeling the same way, because they pull away at the same time, both a little breathless, Dan’s face red and blotchy from the tears still, and when Phil licks his lips experimentally, they taste like salt.

“I–” Phil goes to speak, but he’s cut off when Dan’s mouth crashes into his, their teeth clank together for a second before they readjust each other, in perfect sync like a rolling wave, and their tongues slip into each others mouth as Phil tastes and breathes in all that he possibly can.

He’s not sure how or when it happens, but his hands end up in Dan’s hair, fingers tangled with soft curls, as his fingernails scrape across his scalp wanting, pulling him in closer, like they might just fuse into one if they tried hard enough.

They’re hungry for it now, little whimpers escape them both that Phil isn’t sure which noises are him and which are Dan.

They’re moving now, without words spoken, Dan is grabbing at Phil’s shirt, tugging it from where it’s tucked in neatly into his trouser belt, crumpling it carelessly as Phil continues to roam his hands in his curls, Dan’s hands travel from the from of his shirt to the back, feeling up and down his spine, squeezing and feeling him like he’s mapping him out with those large, warm hands of his.

And when they eventually end up on his ass, pulling him roughly so their body to body, Phil suddenly becomes very aware of every time he’s feeling.

And it’s  _ burning _ hot.

Dan pulls away, a line of spit connects them at the lip until Dan’s licking it away, eyes hooded and glossy still, chest heaving with the heavy breaths he takes in and out, voice trembling when he starts to speak,

“I think we should—”

“I want you,” Phil gasps, hands shaking as he runs his thumb over the sharpness of his cheekbone, forcing himself to look right into Dan’s eyes and speak the words that are bursting in his chest.

“I want you so badly,” he says again, voice a little more stable this time, swallowing down any fear and confusion he had, and swallowing it down hard, like the biggest pill possible, his eyes flicker over Dan’s face.

“I want you. I want my happy ending, Dan,” he tells him. “Please.”

Dan is still holding him around the waist, and only for a second does his grip slightly falter before it’s firm again, and he’s breathing in, a smile wobbles on his lips, more tears form in his eyes and he gives a shaky, wet laugh.

“God,” he whispers. “Me too, Phil.”

He leans in, and kisses him again, less hungry and angry, and softer this time. He’s gentle and slow and takes the time to properly explore his mouth with his, breathing in slowly like a gentle tide.

They eventually break away, but this time, after feeling so boneless, Phil let’s his forehead rest on Dan’s, loosely wrapping his arms around his neck, never wanting to let go.

“Will you come to bed with me?” Phil asks in a low voice and just as Dan starts to pull away, Phil holds him close still.

“No,” he giggles. “Not… not like that,” he says, feeling his face start to flush. “It’s just that. I don’t think that sofa is going to be very good for your back, you see.”

Dan laughs, and Phil’s stomach erupts with butterflies at the sound as Dan’s breath tickles at his face.

“Ah,” he chuckles, eyes going all squinty as he looks down. “Is that the reason?”

Phil’s heart is still racing slightly. “No,” he says easily.

“No?” Dan asks, and Phil leans his face forward to brush his lips against Dan’s again.

“No,” he repeats. “I just want… you.”

“Me,” Dan whispers.

“And me. Just us.” Phil shudders.

So Dan kisses him a little harder, a little sweeter, and when he pulls away, he’s giggling again, a pinkness blossoming under his jaw in a small little patch.

“Come on then,” he whispers quietly, nodding his head towards the bed. “For my back’s sake,” he adds with a grin. 

And after they’ve changed into their nightmare and had a glass of milk each, they slide under the blankets together, first a little awkward as they lay, shoulder to shoulder, barely touching, but eventually, the bed dips as Dan rolls to his side, puffing up his (Phil’s) pillow to get comfy, and once he is, Phil follows his lead, facing him so that their knees knock together like they’re made to fit, and always have been.

“Hold my hand,” Dan says, hands running under the blankets, only stopping when his knuckles bump against his, and they clumsily lace their fingers together, fitting easily like old rope.

“Don’t let go until morning?” Phil whispers into the night.

And Dan just squeezes his hand as a gentle confirmation and he closes his eyes, and Phil does the same, letting the sound of the breathing next to him, relax him into a peaceful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> updates every saturday :)
> 
> come say hi on tumblr !! @watergator


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